Lost Pretense
by iamthelie
Summary: He wasn't who they thought he was. He wasn't even who he thought he was.
1. John Doe

**Lost Pretense**  
******Chapter One: John Doe  
**Rating: R (gonna do that to be on the safe side, applies to subject matter)  
**Word Count:** 2,186  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.  
**Summary:** He wasn't who everyone thought he was. He wasn't even who _he_ thought he was.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan (kind of sort of)  
**Author's Note: **Again, I'm still working on cleaning up old fics. Like Soulless and A Sort of Prologue, this has been around for a year. I've always liked this story, despite the fact that it hails from an even darker place in my mind than Soulless.

I'm posting two chapters of this right now because it _is_ a Crossing Jordan fic, even if the first chapter doesn't necessarily seem that way.

* * *

**John Doe**

His head pounded. It was the first thing that he was aware of as he came to his senses. Opening his eyes, he looked up to see a brick building. He was in a bad part of town, but he didn't know what town. He sat up slowly, trying to get his bearings. This was an alley way; dirty water from the last rain or maybe even snowfall—he couldn't be certain— dropped off the building and puddled next to him. The weather was neither too hot nor too cold, and the sky was clear. It could have been any time of year.

How had he gotten here? Where _was_ here?

And he wasn't even asking the scariest question. Who was he? He had no idea. He dug in his pockets, frantically searching for his id. Nothing in the dusty overcoat, the torn and blacked dress shirt—more gray than the white pinstripe it had once been—nothing in the soot covered jeans. _Nothing._ He touched his head. A gash on his forehead, dried blood on the back of his head.

And his hands...

Nausea washed over him as he contemplated the seared flesh. Something had happened to him, probably something bad. He didn't know what, though. Didn't know where he was. He fought the urge to panic. He couldn't go on like this. He forced himself to his feet. His body was aching, and he figured he was covered in bruises if not worse.

He made his way slowly down the alley, passing trash bins full of debris and stinking refuse. Reaching the end of the building, he stopped, staring.

Police cars. Three of them, with the lights still turning. But he didn't hear the sirens. Suddenly, it made more sense. The officers were studying the hulk of a burned out car. _An explosion._ He'd been nearby when it happened. He didn't remember it, but he _knew_ he had been.

"Hey, you!" an officer shouted—it must have been a shout, but he barely heard it—and started towards him. He didn't know why, but his instincts screamed at him to run. He ran, ignoring the pain that intensified with every step. He fled down the alley, ducking across the street and into another alley before he stopped to catch his breath. There. A homeless shelter.

In his state, he'd blend right in, dirty clothes, stiff aching body. He accepted the meal they offered him and first aid for his hands with guilt. He wasn't homeless. He just didn't know where home was. He needed to plan, needed to find out _who_ he was.

He had amnesia, and he'd been near an explosion. He had known he had to run from the police, but he didn't know why. Whoever he was, he was in trouble. He had to find out more about that explosion, and he couldn't risk turning himself in or asking too many questions. He'd wait for tomorrow's newspapers.

And hope to hell they had some sort of answers.

* * *

The more he learned about himself, the more he scared himself. He discovered he was familiar with guns, even with killing. He wasn't just familiar with a gun; he was _comfortable. _The gun he'd taken off a would-be mugger—apparently the punk was too high to realize that he didn't have anything—was like a second skin. His accuracy was even more disturbing. He'd only meant to threaten, to defend himself from his attacker, but his aim was better than he'd given himself credit for, and he'd nearly killed a man.

The recoil had also dredged up a memory—a man falling off a roof after he shot him—that left him shaking as the addict panicked, running straight into a metal trashcan. He'd taken the loser to the hospital, all the time wondering if he'd be recognized for whatever he was running from.

He was good with a gun. And afraid of the police. Whoever he was, he was in _real_ trouble.

Not here, though, not on the street. He had scared off more than his drugged out mugger with that gunshot, and no one tried to make an issue of his presence after that. He'd gone back to the shelter, taking a cot and resting for a few hours before he went in search of the papers.

He'd gathered up all the information that he could on the explosion. The car had belonged to the police department and was being used at the time by a detective, Woodrow Hoyt. Hoyt was considered a hero after his shooting—some cop killer a year ago, apparently. This guy was getting a state funeral, a hero's funeral. But no one knew why he had died. He was on leave, not involved in any outstanding cases or investigations that could have led to his death.

He believed he'd met Hoyt. Maybe even killed him. He didn't like his suspicions. But even if he was basically "good" after his memory loss, whatever he had been before was debatable at best. He got flashes of memories every so often, nothing that made sense, but he remembered killing more than just that man who fell from the roof.

He needed a shower and a shave. So far, he was surviving, but he didn't have anywhere to go or any money to keep going. He needed a way to make money, preferrably one that had nothing to do with the gun he carried in his waistband.

"Hey," a woman's voice interrupted his thoughts. His hearing was coming back. He should be grateful, he guessed. He looked over his shoulder and then stopped, turning around.

"I don't have any money," he told her. She was too good for the streets, the kind of girl that bleeding hearts always wanted to save, too young to be struggling for what little money a man would pay for her body, the kind of hooker who barely made it day to day. Her waitress uniform didn't fit and was as ill-used as she was. She glanced around them nervously.

"I don't want your money, not for that," she began after a moment. She was frowning at him, like she expected him to know that or something, but he didn't know her.

He didn't _think_ he knew her, anyway. "What do you want, then?"

"I'm Andrea," she said, again like it should mean something to him. He shrugged. Her face wasn't even familiar, just that of a scared little girl who should never have left home.

"Am I supposed to know you?" he finally asked. He didn't want to admit his weakness, but if she knew him, maybe... Maybe she'd help him get back to who and what he was. If he even wanted to be that person again.

She shook her head. "No. No, you don't know me. And no, you've never been my John, either."

He waited. She still seemed to know him, and he didn't know why. She sighed. "Look, I saw you with that meth addict. His gun was in your face, yet you stopped him... And you took him to the hospital. I figure that makes you a decent enough guy. Better than most of them out here."

He didn't debate that. Most of the guys she spoke to were Johns or pimps. Possibly worse. "So you think I'm a decent guy. What of it?"

"I want protection," she said reluctantly.

"From what?"

"I don't want a pimp," she insisted. "I got out of the business. I've got a crummy job with lousy hours as a waitress. But... There's a few people from that life that won't leave me alone. If you help me, you can have my couch. Or the bed, but we sleep in shifts. I'm out, ok? Out."

He nodded. "So... I follow you, intimidate a few people, and I have a place to stay?"

"No killing," she quickly added. "I just want... I want to hold down an honest job. I want to get my life back, that's all."

He didn't think she was telling him everything, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't get a better offer, and he was ready to collapse again. "Deal."

* * *

He was a constant source of amusement for Andrea, who laughed at him when he finally realized that his red, irritated eyes were from dry contacts. He took them out to find his eyes were actually blue, not brown. Andrea liked them, said they were wholesome. He hoped that if the police were looking for the vagrant they'd seen, they would still be looking for a man with brown eyes and that would help him stay hidden. His face was bruised and swollen, unhelpful in jogging any memories of who he had once been.

He found old scars when he showered, including a gunshot wound on his stomach that triggered a too brief flash of memory. He saw a rifle, felt the impact. Remembering it made him sick. Angry.

Everything seemed rather useless; none of it told him who he was. And contrary to the routine he'd fallen into with Andrea, he was not her brother. She'd started calling him Will, after her brother. He might have had a sibling—his role as big brother seemed familiar to him—and Andrea was convinced that he was so protective because he had been a big brother. He didn't know how else to be.

He walked Andrea to and from work, sometimes sitting at the counter and drinking a coffee while he read the papers. He stayed at the apartment when she was there, and he would stay at the diner throughout her shift if not for the owner.

Mic wasn't a bad guy, though when he raised his voice to Andrea she trembled and dropped the coffee pot. The cook had told him off for that one, and afterwards Mic stopped grumbling when Will—he wasn't sure he would keep calling himself "Will," but it was as good a name as any—stayed for most or all of Andrea's shift. She was friendlier and more cheerful when he was around. She felt safe. So he would linger over his coffee, smiling as she teased the regulars and frowning when she flirted with the others. Her tips were higher, and she didn't mind paying for his coffee. She even tried to get him to eat more.

"You're a scarecrow," she teased, ruffling his hair. He rolled his eyes at her.

"Did you brush your teeth?" he shot back, leaning over the couch.

She stuck out her tongue as she went into the bathroom. He sat back down and sighed. He'd read in the papers that the investigation into Hoyt's death was at a stand still, and the memorial service would be held the next day. He'd go to the funeral, see if there was anything else he could learn, even though he planned on keeping his distance.

Andrea came out of the bathroom just as loud pounding started on the door. Andrea froze. "It's _him._"

_He_ was Montelli. _He _was a crooked vice cop that harassed Andrea. She wasn't a hooker anymore, but that didn't mean Montelli wouldn't try and bust her anyway. Will didn't know what Montelli wanted with Andrea—she had never been the prettiest or even well paid for what she did. Montelli was a bully; Will knew that much. He shoved Andrea into the bedroom and closed the door behind them, bracing it with his body as the front door burst open.

"You've got the wrong place, Montelli," he warned. "Leave now."

"I do, huh? Seems to me this is still Andrea Knaub's place, ain't it?" the cop demanded, trying to force the bedroom door. Andrea climbed under the bed, hands covering her mouth, her whole body shaking. Not for the first time, Will wished she'd been honest with him, told him everything about Montelli.

"You're not getting Andrea. I won't let you."

"Yeah, heard she had some tough guy protecting her. Guess what, asshole? You picked the wrong girl to shack up with," Montelli said with a sneer in his voice. Will felt the pressure against the door let up and braced himself for Montelli's attempt to ram it. He wasn't expecting the shot. Montelli was crooked, but he was still a cop and a cop wouldn't just shoot. Or so Will thought. He hit the wall, carried backwards by the impact. He fought the pain, trying not to give in to oblivion.

Montelli's dark form entered the room, going to the bed and yanking Andrea out by her foot. She screamed, and Will struggled to get to his feet as Montelli threw her back against the headboard. He heard a crack before Montelli fired twice, turning away remorselessly.

Andrea was dead. He knew she was. His fingers found his own gun, and he fired at Montelli, two shots, one for each time he'd shot Andrea. The gun felt heavy; his hands burned. He was barely aware of anything as he put the gun in Andrea's hand and stumbled over Montelli's body on his way out the door.


	2. Unhealthy Pastimes

**Lost Pretense**  
******Chapter Two: Unhealthy Pastimes  
**Rating: R (gonna do that to be on the safe side, applies to subject matter)  
**Word Count:** 2,642  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.  
**Summary:** He wasn't who everyone thought he was. He wasn't even who _he_ thought he was.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan (kind of sort of)  
**Author's Note: **Again, I'm still working on cleaning up old fics. Like Soulless and A Sort of Prologue, this has been around for a year. I've always liked this story, despite the fact that it hails from an even darker place in my mind than Soulless.

I'm posting two chapters of this right now because it _is_ a Crossing Jordan fic, even if the first chapter doesn't necessarily seem that way.

* * *

**Unhealthy Pastimes**

"_Two weeks after the tragic death of Detective Woodrow Hoyt, the trail of his killer has gone cold, but at last family and friends have gathered to mourn his loss. Hoyt, who had a distinguished career with the Boston Police department was behind the arrest of—"_

"Turn it off," Jordan snapped angrily as she walked into the breakroom.

"Sorry, love," Nigel told her, rising to turn off the t.v. "Are you really sure that you should be here?"

She was aware that she looked like a mess. Her hair was falling out of its clips, her blouse was misbuttoned, and she could hardly see past her runny mascara. Plus, she was missing a shoe somehow. "Yes, Nigel. I need to be here. I need to do something."

He frowned at her. "Jordan—"

"It's not denial," she insisted quietly, looking down at her hands. She couldn't help staring at it. She'd been named the executor of Woody's will, and though there hadn't been many instructions, one had definitely surprised her. _Jordan, I know things have been awkward between us. But not that I'm gone, I want you to take the ring you wouldn't take before. You don't have to wear it, but I've always wanted you to have this._

She wore it on the ring finger of her left hand. He'd been careful to assure her that it wasn't what she thought it was. It wasn't an engagement ring. Still, after J.D.'s death, she'd realized that no one could replace Woody in her heart. It was his, not that he'd tried to take it since her return from D.C. The band was warm, almost burning her skin. It told her that Woody was alive. Apart of him was there, with her.

"Really, Jordan? It's really not denial?"

"Please, don't start. I don't know that I'll ever really believe he's dead. I know it's not healthy, but that is how it has to be. Do you have an interesting case for me?" she asked, deliberately changing the subject.

Nigel sighed, but he gave in and nodded. "How about Andrea Knaub, 22, two shots to the chest?"

"What makes this so interesting?"

"She supposedly shot a cop two times in the back _after_ he shot her."

"Ooh, that's exactly what I need," Jordan purred, heading into trace. Behind her, Nigel shook his head. She looked down at the body. "You sure the gunshots killed her? She's got a nasty bump on the back of her head."

"Could be, love," Nigel agreed. "All the more reason why it seems odd that she shot the cop."

Jordan shook her head sadly. "She was young."

"They always are, love," Nigel said. He was watching her closely, too closely. Jordan focused her attention back on the body. "Did you get much on trace?"

"Few fibers, not much. Andrea was apparently just out of the shower when this happened."

"So she showers, then lures a cop to her apartment and kills him?" Jordan asked dubiously. "Nigel, that story makes no sense at all. Look, she's got bruises on her ribs. They're older. She was beaten, probably about three weeks ago."

"Then she'd be scared. Maybe the cop was an abusive boyfriend?" Nigel offered.

"And she was waiting for him? I don't buy it," Jordan said firmly.

Nigel smiled. "And that is why we love you, Jordan. I'd say you're right. Her tox screen is negative. She was a user, but she's been clean for at least three months. I matched the gun to the bullets they took from the cop, who is in intensive care, but there wasn't any GSR on her hands."

Jordan blinked. "And they still think she shot him? There had to be someone else."

"Exactly," Nigel said in triumph. "Want to do the autopsy?"

* * *

"No surprise," Jordan said later, pulling off her gloves. She looked down at Andrea and sighed. Such a waste. "She died of the wound to the heart. It would have killed her instantly."

"So there's no way she shot the cop," Seely said, cursing. He had shown up halfway through the autopsy and refused to leave. She didn't know why he was here. "It had to be the bodyguard."

Jordan looked at him incredulously. "Andrea Knaub had a _bodyguard?" _

"According to regulars at the diner where she worked and her boss, yeah," Seely answered. He glanced at the woman on the table and back at Jordan. "Building super said he was her boyfriend, vice says he must have been her pimp."

That Jordan didn't agree with. "There was no recent sexual activity, consensual or otherwise. He wasn't her pimp. Probably not her boyfriend, either."

Seely shrugged. This case didn't interest him, not like it did Jordan. "According to the regulars and her boss, he was just protection. Treated her like a little sister. Supposedly, he was living with her, walked her to and from work, drank coffee for an hour at least to calm her down. She was scared of something, but no one knows who he was. She called him Will, but everyone agreed that wasn't his name."

"Did anyone know _what_ frightened her?" Jordan asked, wishing Seely thought about more than a quick resolution to a case.

"No. She was a loser," Seely shrugged. "She was an addict. Maybe she was still paranoid."

"Did you at least get a description?"

"Blond, blue eyes, about six foot. He'd been in some sort of trouble, no one knows what. Bruises on his face, burns on his hands. Wouldn't be hard to find, you wouldn't think, but he seems to know something about going to ground. People only saw him at one of three places: the apartment, the diner, or the library, and he hasn't been there since Knaub turned up dead. I've got officers canvasing the area, but they'd probably miss him if they weren't paying attention," Seely told her. "We didn't get anything from the apartment. Couldn't even find proof that someone else was living there."

Jordan looked at Nigel. "I'm up for this if you are."

"This isn't healthy," Nigel warned, but he smiled. "I'll drive."

* * *

"The door was broken into," Seely explained to Jordan. "Knaub was in the back room when we found her, on the bed. Montelli was on the floor in the doorway. It looks like he shot through the door. His gun fired two shots, according to ballistics, they went into her. He was found with two shots in his back. Fired from the gun in her hand but not by her."

Jordan studied the bedroom door. "I don't think Montelli was aiming at the lock."

"There was another bullet here," Nigel said, indicating a spot in the wall. "We dug it out, and it matched Montelli's gun, but you think we missed something, don't you?"

"You did," Jordan pointed to the wall. "I'm betting that discoloration is blood. Our bodyguard was hit _through_ that door."

"Any idea how badly?" Seely asked.

"Well... The velocity of the bullet was slowed by the wood, but not enough, because it still knocked him back into the wall. He must have been bracing the door, the shot hit him point blank. Could have killed him if it hadn't gone through the door first," Jordan said, thinking out loud. She looked around the room.

If Andrea had been asleep, and Montelli pounded on the door, then she and her boyfriend woke up. He got out of bed and went to the door...

No, that wasn't right. The sheets were still made underneath where Andrea's body had been. Neither of them had been asleep when Montelli got there. Andrea was just out of the shower. Her bodyguard pushed her into the room, shut the door behind them. Montelli broke in the front door, shot through the bedroom door, knocking the bodyguard out of the fight. Andrea had been...

Jordan knelt next to the bed and examined the floor with a flashlight. "He dragged her out of here. She was under the bed, and he threw her on to it."

"The crack on her skull," Nigel agreed.

"Then he shot her, and he started to leave," Jordan went on. "But the boyfriend recovered. He had a gun. He shot Montelli, put the gun in Andrea's hand and left. This was a hit. Montelli came here to kill her."

"Nice theory, Cavanaugh," Seely snorted. "But we're talking about a cop. Montelli probably thought he had a pimp or a drug addict behind that door, was forced to fire. Then the bodyguard shoots him and then he took care of the girl using Montelli's gun."

"Seely, I know you in the band of blue like to stick together, but I don't think you want to stick up for Montelli. He was probably crooked. Why did he break the door down? Why was he even here? Andrea Knaub wasn't a hooker anymore. She had been clean for three months. Her life was back together. You can't tell me a vice cop on the up and up could see her as a suspect in anything," Jordan argued, growing more passionate by the minute. Seely's head was up his ass as usual, and she did not want Andrea's killer to escape justice because of what Andrea used to be.

"The trajectory of the bullets is wrong," Nigel added. "The shots that killed Andrea came from the foot of the bed. If Montelli was already down, our killer would have stepped in blood. Instead, we couldn't even find evidence that he was here. And the bullets into Montelli came from an angle, from about where our bodyguard fell after he was hit."

"Look, Cavanaugh, a good cop is in the hospital dying, and some punk is out there, getting away with attempted murder. I'm going to find him," Seely said irritably, going out the door.

Jordan looked at Nigel. She knew Andrea Knaub would not get justice from Seely. "Why don't we talk to Andrea's boss?"

* * *

"I already talked to the cops," Mic Carlson said angrily. "I told them all I'm going to say."

Jordan nodded. " I know, Mr. Carlson, but it seems to me that you cared about Andrea. And you would want the truth about her killer to be known. Right now, the police think that there was another person in her apartment. They're saying that he shot Montelli and killed Andrea. That he was Andrea's pimp."

Mic slammed a tray of glasses onto the counter. Normally, he was a good natured man, but this business was making him sick. He pointed a finger in the girl's face. "You listen to me. Andrea was a good girl. Smart. She might have been in trouble like that before, but she was out. She was clean. I don't hire drug addicts, and I don't hire whores. She was neither. She was just putting her life back together. And he was helping her. That's all. He protected her, 'cause she was scared of something, really scared. But he was never her pimp."

"A boyfriend?"

Mic snorted derisively. No wonder the cops couldn't make sense of this. He doubted these two from the medical examiner's office would be any different. "He was more like a brother to her. Kid was a teddy bear where she was concerned. He was a little rough around the edges. Quiet most times, almost obsessed. He would do anything for her, though. He walked her here, sat with a coffee until she was comfortable, and then he chased his own demons. I don't know what they were, so don't bother asking. Point of fact, I don't think Will—I don't think that's even his name—knows what they were. But he always showed up on time to walk her home after her shift. He never tried to do anything to her, and she might have let him. No one else, but maybe him. She wasn't scared of him, and she would tremble when I raised my voice."

"Did he kill Montelli?"

She didn't pull her punches, this Jordan girl. Mic respected that. "Maybe."

"_It doesn't make sense," Will whispered, seemingly unaware of the alcohol Mic was using to clean out the bullet wound. Kid was lucky it had gone through. "She was out. She was clean."_

_Mic knew the shock was talking. He doubted Will even realized he'd shot a cop earlier. "Listen, Kid, Andrea didn't tell you everything. It's as simple as that. She was a sweet girl, but we all knew she was scared. Montelli must have had a reason he wanted her dead, and it must have been big, or he wouldn't have tried to kill you, too."_

_Will stared dumbly at his gloved hands. "She didn't deserve this. She'd turned her life around."_

"_I know, Kid. We all know," Mic applied pressure to the wound, causing Will to look up for a change. "I did the best I could, but you need a doctor. I know you can't go to the hospital, but you take care of yourself out there, Will. Everyone knows you were her bodyguard. They'll know you shot Montelli."_

_Guilt flooded the kid's eyes again. "I've got nowhere to go."_

_He sounded so lost Mic wanted to tell him to stay where he was. He knew he couldn't. "What about that funeral tomorrow? Aren't you going to that?"_

"_I don't know, Mic. I don't know where I'm going. But thank you."_

Mic looked back at the girl. Jordan was waiting, somehow expecting more. She knew Mic knew more than he was saying. "He was capable. He knew how to handle himself. And he did show his anger now and again, when someone threatened her or wouldn't back off. He was different when he was angry. Scary. Capable of any sort of violence."

"So he would have killed for her?"

"Will was a kid already eaten by guilt. If he shot Montelli, he didn't mean to, not for more than the second it took him. What everybody seems to be missing is that if Montelli was there, he was crooked. Andrea was clean. She never had a pimp. And Will wasn't her pimp. He... He didn't like to touch anyone. Didn't hardly take off those gloves of his, hated the sight of his hands. I remember when Andrea took of the bandages for the first time. He looked sick."

"Do you know anything else about him?" Jordan persisted. "Anything that could help us find him?"

Mic looked straight at her. "Why would I tell you?"

"Because the only thing between him and a firing squad as a cop killer is my theory that Montelli killed Andrea first. The detective thinks your friend staged both deaths."

"Not him. He wouldn't. You don't understand," Mic said angrily. "You people don't listen to one damn word, do you? Will couldn't hurt her. Whatever he might have been, he could never have hurt a woman."

"Why did he put the gun in Andrea's hand?" Jordan asked, still probing.

"He wasn't thinking clearly. He and Andrea were already afraid of the police. I thought Andrea was scared because of what she had been, but maybe it was more. Will... No one knows what his reasons were," Mic answered. "I don't know why he did it. Maybe he was hoping that the police would never realize he was there."

"Will was hiding something," Jordan insisted. She looked at her companion. He sighed. "Do you have any idea what it might have been?"

"No. Will didn't talk much. Let Andrea do that for him. Sometimes she said he was her brother, but he wasn't. Only thing I know is, he was obsessed with that explosion."

The tough girl act faded, and Jordan went white. "_What _explosion?"

"You know," Mic shot back, pleased to see a real reaction from her, "the one that killed that detective."


	3. Meet Rinse Repeat

**Lost Pretense**  
******Chapter Three: Meet, Rinse, Repeat  
**Rating: R (gonna do that to be on the safe side, applies to subject matter)  
**Word Count:** 2,080  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.  
**Summary:** He wasn't who everyone thought he was. He wasn't even who _he_ thought he was.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan (kind of sort of)  
**Author's Note: **Again, I'm still working on cleaning up old fics. Like Soulless and A Sort of Prologue, this has been around for a year. I've always liked this story, despite the fact that it hails from an even darker place in my mind than Soulless.

I had a lot of fun editing this bit. Maybe that's just because I've been up since 5 this morning... Or maybe I'm just naturally insane. :)

* * *

**Meet, Rinse, Repeat**

"Honey, I'm home," Jordan called out mockingly as she entered her apartment. As usual, there was no one to come home to, would never be anyone to come home to, if what they said about Woody was true. She twisted the ring on her finger, still disbelieving. She might have attended Woody's memorial service that morning, but she would not accept his death.

She ignored Nigel's voice, always reminding her that her doubt was unhealthy, and turned over the day in her mind. They had tried to find Andrea's protector, but they'd come to a dead end. No one outside the diner and library had seen him. The apartment super had known that there was a man living in the apartment, but not what he looked like. The librarians remembered seeing him, but he had never gotten a library card, so they had no name or address for him. The descriptions of him varied, and none of them were clear enough to truly identify him.

Jordan took off her coat and set it on the couch, pausing as she remembered when Kayla was staying with her. Her apartment had been too full then, and now it seemed too empty. She felt drained. Kicking off her shoes, she pulled off her blouse as she went into the bedroom. She took down her hair and was about to start unbuckling her pants when a hand closed over her mouth.

"I need your help, Dr. Cavanaugh," a low, muffled voice said in her ear. She tried to scream, but she choked on it and not even a whistle escaped his fingers. "Relax. I have no intention of hurting you. You can put back on your shirt, and we'll talk out in your living room."

She nodded. He stepped away from her and picked the shirt from the ground, handing it to her. She pulled it back on and struggled with the buttons. He didn't watch her, but that didn't make it any easier. "Don't attempt to go for the gun you have in the drawer next to your bed, Doctor. I have it. I don't want to use it. I just want to talk. Also, don't bother trying to call anyone. I've disconnected your phone."

"What do you want?" she demanded as he led her into the front room. He pushed her down onto the couch and took the other chair, staying in the shadows. He folded his hands into his lap, and she caught the shiny sheen of his gloves. "Did you know Andrea Knaub?"

'I did. I didn't kill her."

"No, I don't think you did," she agreed. "But I _do_ think you tried to kill Montelli."

"Fair is fair," her _guest_ answered. "He tried to kill me first."

She adjusted herself in her seat, trying to get at an angle to see him better. It didn't do her any good. In the current light, his face was covered by darkness, and all she could see was his hands, like something out of a horror movie cliché. His voice was still too low to distinguish. He was two feet from her, and yet he was as unreachable as before he showed up in her apartment.

"You _were_ hit by that bullet," she whispered.

"A graze."

"I am a doctor. You said you wanted my help. Let me look at your wound."

"Need," he corrected. "I _need_ your help. I don't want it, and I don't trust you. Still... I recognized you, so that must mean something. I know you're investigating Andrea's death. You know I shot Montelli. You could turn me in to the police. And I can't let you do that. Not yet. Not before I know..."

"Know what?" she asked impatiently.

"Who I am." His words stunned her. She blinked a few times. He had _amnesia?_ That was his secret? Who was he? She started to open her mouth, but his next words took her world out from under her. "And what I had to do with the explosion that killed Detective Hoyt."

Her throat tightened. This man could be Woody's killer—not that she believed Woody was dead—and he was asking for her help? "What makes you think you had something to do with it?"

"I woke up in the alley near where the car was found. I don't know how I got there, but I know I was bruised, burned. Covered in soot. I was _there. _I don't know what that means. I don't know if I was some hapless bystander or if I was involved, if I... Look, I need to know who I am. Somehow, I think you can help me with that, and you can do it without the police. Help me do that. Help me make Andrea's killer pay, and I swear, whatever I had to do with Hoyt's death... I'll turn myself in if I have to, for all of it," he promised fervently.

Jordan found herself wanting to believe him. She didn't know why, but she didn't think he killed Woody. (Again, Woody wasn't dead, but this guy wasn't a killer, not a premeditated one like the bomber would have to be.) "Why should I believe you?"

"You have no reason to," he agreed as he rose. He crossed to the door and set the gun on the table. "You can have this back. But I wouldn't recommend shooting me in the back."

"Because you'll expect it?" she asked.

She could almost see a smile on his hidden face. "No. Because it isn't loaded."

* * *

"Jordan."

She heard the voice and grumbled under her breath. Then a hand touched her shoulder gently. She mumbled again. This time the hand shoved her. "Jordan."

She looked up at Nigel's bleary face. "What? Did we get a mass casualty, 'cause I swear if you woke me for anything less, you're a dead man."

"And this is the thanks I get for being concerned?" Nigel sighed melodramatically. "I don't know why I bother sometimes."

She rolled her eyes. He grinned, but sobered quickly. "Honestly, love, are you sure you're all right? No one would blame you if you needed time off."

"I'm fine, Nigel."

He looked at her. "Those are words I will never believe from the mouth of Jordan Cavanaugh. Come on. You refused to accept Woody's death for a week, and I humoured you. We looked everywhere for somewhere he would have gone, someone else it could have been, but even I have my limits. He's gone, love. And you know that. You just have to accept that. And you're not helping yourself any by not sleeping and obsessing over this case."

Jordan looked at him. "It's not my fault I can't let this go, Nige. He came to see me."

"He?"

"Andrea's bodyguard. The elusive Will," Jordan explained.

Nigel whistled. "Sweet Nancy. What did he tell you?"

"What we already knew. Montelli killed Andrea. He killed Montelli," Jordan stretched, easing the kink out of her neck. "Oh, and a few things we didn't know. He has amnesia, and he thinks he may have killed Woody."

Nigel frowned. "What did he want, love? Did he threaten you?"

"No," she shook her head. "It was the weirdest thing, Nige. I felt... At first I was a little scared—he _did_ break into my apartment—but he didn't threaten me. He asked for my help. He confessed to shooting Montelli, to his involvement—what he remembers of it—in Woody's death. I don't think he killed Woody, though."

"You also don't believe Woody is dead," Nigel reminded her.

She shrugged. "So?"

Before he could answer, her phone rang. She picked it up, cradling it on her shoulder. "Cavanaugh."

"_I probably kept you from sleeping last night,"_ came the recognizable yet disguised voice of her intruder. There was something familiar in his banter, though. "_I figure that means I at least owe you coffee. If you meet me, I'll give you whatever you need to identify me."_

This was a golden opportunity, for both cases. "Including seeing you face-to-face?"

"_If you insist."_

"I do."

"_Starbucks then, in fifteen minutes,"_ he told her and hung up.

She set down the phone and looked at Nigel. He was waiting expectantly. Good, faithful Nigel. He'd never let her go alone, and she knew that would spook Will. She smiled brightly. "Okay, Nige, I tell you what. I'll take a long lunch, how does that sound?"

"Suspicious."

* * *

He held out a coffee cup, surprising her in the parking lot. He couldn't run the risk of being too public. He didn't know what would happen if he showed his face in crowded areas. He might have been recognized, even arrested. She could have betrayed him, to the police, to anyone. Somehow, he didn't think she would, but he couldn't explain the feeling, and he didn't know if trusting his gut was really a good idea. He couldn't even remember if he had good instincts. Still, something told him that she was not someone who would involve the police when she could do it herself, and that meant she would come out here alone, intending to drive to the coffee shop.

He shouldn't do this. He had a nagging suspicion that everything was about to go wrong,that bringing her into this was the worst thing he could do, but he needed some one to help him. She was familiar. He had seen her face in the news; he had recognized it.

_She was smiling, crooking her finger towards him in a "come hither" motion. Music was playing. He pulled her into his arms, hearing her laughter against his neck._

That was all. It had come and gone quickly, a flash that made no sense. He didn't know who she had been to him, but he had been wary. He had stayed out of the light, keep his voice low and unrecognizable. She would want to see his face, he expected that, and he had agreed. Now he wanted to back out. He should never have agreed to this, but then... he was weak where she was concerned. He didn't know why.

She walked out of the building then, almost straight into the coffee. She took it and sniffed suspiciously before she tested it. "I thought we were meeting at Starbucks."

"I got you a double caramel latte," he said apologetically, not sure why he felt he needed to, "Now—"

She stepped closer to him. "Who did you let butcher your hair?"

"Excuse me?" he asked, trying to back away from the hand that she reached up to touch his hair. She dropped her coffee and wrapped her arms around him.

"I'm so glad you're alive," she whispered, squeezing him tightly. Disconcerted, he tried to pull away, but she was like a damn vice, clinging to him tightly. "I never believed you were dead. I couldn't."

She pulled his lips to hers. He'd kissed her before; he knew that. It was as familiar as breathing. He returned the kiss, snaking his hands through her hair. All of it seemed so... automatic, natural, as though he had always done it... He finally pulled back as the lack of oxygen reminded him of what he was doing.

He pushed her back."What are we to each other? Who _am _I?"

She looked at him. Her smile had fallen, and tears threatened her eyes. She was crushed, and he hated himself for making her feel that way. "You really _don't_ remember? Me? You? Our long, sordid history?"

He shook his head. "No... But I do remember your smile."

"My smile?" she asked as one unconsciously brightened her face despite her tears. "You remember my smile?"

"Yeah," he shifted uncomfortably, frowning. This made no sense to him. "What do you mean, who butchered my hair?"

He'd never known it any other way, just this short cropped blond, but she did, apparently. "Someone chopped it down and bleached it."

She reached again with trembling hands, and he didn't move, letting her touch him. "It was longer, kind of spikier, like you'd just gotten out of bed or just run your fingers through it... And it was brown."

He didn't like the way he reacted to her touch. "You didn't answer my question. What are we to each other?"

"Um, that," she began, and then he noticed the ring she wore on her left hand. _Shit_, he thought. _I'm in more trouble than I ever knew.  
_


	4. Sure You Have Questions

**Lost Pretense**  
******Chapter Four: Sure You Have Questions... But Who Has the Answers?  
**Rating: R (gonna do that to be on the safe side, applies to subject matter)  
**Word Count:** 2,854  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.  
**Summary:** He wasn't who everyone thought he was. He wasn't even who _he_ thought he was.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan (kind of sort of)  
**Author's Note: **Again, I'm still working on cleaning up old fics. Like Soulless and A Sort of Prologue, this has been around for a year. I've always liked this story, despite the fact that it hails from an even darker place in my mind than Soulless.

I really wanted to finish editing and post this last night, but stupid work interfered... Oh, well. Here it is. Enjoy. :)

* * *

**Sure You Have Questions...**

**But Who Has the Answers?**

_His hands were in her hair, his face in her neck. She didn't smell like what he'd expected. She should smell like formaldehyde or dead bodies, given the work she did, but instead she smelled like ivory soap and comfort, like coming home. He could breathe in this scent all day long._

_His hand snaked down her back, causing her to shiver. She was so beautiful. He had chased her for so long, and finally neither of them were running._

"You're blushing," she said, caressing his cheek. She couldn't seem to help it. It was like she was afraid he would suddenly disappear if she stopped touching him. He wasn't really sure what to do about it, so he just sat stiffly, trying not to react.

"Bit of a memory. Not much. But not exactly the kind you tell your children about," he admitted sheepishly. "What are we doing, Dr. Cavanaugh?"

She had pulled him inside, into her office, and shut the doors behind them. He had picked up a snow globe and sat down on her couch, turning it over in his hands. She sat next to him, beginning her tortuous habit of constantly touching him.

"Jordan," she insisted. "It's just too weird having you call me Dr. Cavanaugh, Woody."

He winced. "That _can't_ be my name. Woodrow Wilson Hoyt? Woody? Who comes up with that kind of crap?" he asked, irritated. She shrugged.

"I told you. Your parents had a thing for presidents' names. You were lucky you didn't get Millard," she teased, ruffling his hair.

He pulled back, reminded violently of Andrea's habit of doing that to him. "You still haven't told me what we were to each other. Did I give you that ring?"

She looked at it, suddenly red and yanking at it like a kid caught in the cookie jar. She couldn't budge it. It was stuck. He almost laughed. She did, nervously. "Uh, yeah, you gave it to me. Well... Okay, you offered it, I refused it, and then I inherited it."

He frowned. "_What?"_

"A long story," she said dismissively.

He rolled his eyes. "So, what are we? Married? I don't remember reading that Hoyt was married."

She coughed, the red on her cheeks deepening to a dark crimson. "No. Not married."

"And no plans for that, huh?"

She shook her head. "I've called you my ex-almost something before. Woody, we were friends. You wanted more... And I couldn't give it to you. Not because I didn't want to, but because I have... commitment issues. I panicked when you gave me the ring, and we were just friends, then you got shot..."

He noticed he was running his hand over the scar on his stomach. She nodded. "I thought I was going to lose you, and I finally told you I... I loved you, and you... You were afraid you were paralyzed, that I said it out of pity..."

"And I was an ass and threw you out?" he guessed. She looked up sharply at his words, but he quickly shook his head. "No, I didn't remember. I just followed the predictable plot line. Besides, you said we were 'almost something.' That implies something happened to stop us from becoming more."

She smiled a little, then quickly turned away and got to her feet. "Yeah, well... That about sums it up. We're just friends now."

"One thing," he held up a hand. "Why do I remember us...having sex?"

She stopped. "What?"

"You heard me," he insisted. "Either I've got a _very_ vivid imagination, or we did, in fact, have sex."

She caught sight of something outside her office and ducked out, not quite shutting the door behind her. He sighed. Getting a straight answer out of her was impossible. "Ah, Nigel, a question. If Woody didn't die in that explosion, who did?"

"Jordan, please," Nigel began. "This isn't healthy. You—"

"I know you think I'm in denial, but this time I have proof," she told him proudly.

"Like what?" Nigel demanded. "A week, Jordan, we looked for a week and didn't find anything to prove that it _wasn't_ Woody in that car. It's time you accepted this and—"

"Exhibit A," she said, stepping back into the room and pointing towards the couch. Will—he couldn't bring himself to use "Woody" —instinctively rose to his feet.

The tall other man smiled widely and wrapped him in a fierce and unexpected hug. "Damn, it's good to see you, Woodrow."

He yanked himself free. "Do I know you?"

Nigel stepped back and looked at Jordan. "Is he kidding?"

She shook her head. "Afraid not. While he has an interesting story about the last two weeks, he has no idea who he was before that. Or what happened in that explosion."

He fought against his rising panic. He shouldn't be here. He knew that. He had to go, and he had to clear his head. He... He was not Woodrow Hoyt. He still didn't know who the hell he was, but he was not Hoyt, and he would not pretend for these people. He pushed past Nigel and Jordan and ducked out the back as a uniformed officer approached them.

He got in the freight elevator, letting the doors close behind him as he shut his eyes. Cops still frightened him, and he didn't know why. It wasn't just that he had shot Montelli. It was more.

He was supposed to _be _a cop. So why did he fear them so damn much?

* * *

Jordan slumped down on her couch, picking up the snow globe Woody had dropped. She remembered him playing with this just before he told her they had to go to Littleton Village. Littleton Village... She closed her eyes. He _remembered _Littleton Village. Not all of it, just that one night...

"Shouldn't we go after him?" Nigel asked, causing her to look up from contemplating the flakes.

"Nigel, he's already long gone. He'll turn up on his own... Or not at all," she whispered softly. She knew Nigel wasn't the one to ask, but she had to know. "Do amnesiacs usually resist knowing who they are?"

"That is not exactly my field of expertise, love, but I think it varies. Maybe Woody's still reacting to the explosion. Someone tried to kill him. He'd be a fool to accept everything he was told at face value."

She nodded. She hoped that was all there was to it. Nigel came over and sat next to her. "So... Why exactly aren't we shouting from rooftops?"

"What?"

"Woody's alive, Jordan. You were right. He's not dead, and everyone who told you he was, to accept his death, was wrong," Nigel reminded her gently. "So why are you still sitting here?"

Jordan looked at Nigel. Bless his innocence. Nigel wasn't the one people would say that about, but sometimes it was true. "Did you notice his hands, Nige?"

"His hands, love? Why would I pay attention to Woodrow's hands?" He turned towards her. "They weren't somewhere inappropriate, were they? And I didn't even notice?"

She rolled her eyes. "The gloves, Nigel."

"Sweet Nancy," Nigel breathed. "Will. Our Woodrow is Andrea Knaub's bodyguard?"

Jordan nodded. She wished that she hadn't dropped her caramel latte. Smiling, she let herself get lost for a moment in the pleasant memory of Woody, coffee, and an elevator. But the moment passed quickly, and tears overwhelmed her eyes. She felt herself sobbing stupidly. Nigel gathered her into his arms. "Shh."

"I should be _happy," _Jordan muttered. "He's alive, and I should be happy. Why am I not happy?"

"Hey," Garret called from the doorway, "what's this? Is Max—?"

"No, not Max," Nigel answered for her. Jordan tried to pull herself together. She brushed the tears out of her eyes, forced herself to take slow, deliberate breaths. Garret moved into the room, and he had apparently signaled Lily, because she and Bug were crowding the office as well. They were all her friends. Her family. They deserved to know.

"Not Dad," she managed to get out. "Woody."

"Jordan," Garret sighed. "We've been over this—"

"It's true, Dr. M," Nigel interrupted. "I saw him, too. He was here. He was definitely alive. There's just one small hitch."

"Two," Jordan corrected.

"Two?" Garret demanded. "What is going on, Jordan? Did you know about this all along?"

She shook her head. "No. I knew he wasn't dead, but I didn't know where he was. Or what he was doing. Neither did he."

"Dear Woodrow has amnesia," Nigel explained. "No memory of anything before the explosion."

"Oh, god, that's awful," Lily whispered. "No wonder he hasn't found us sooner. He didn't even know where we were."

Jordan hated to shatter Lily's innocent outlook. Nigel was leaving the disclosure of the rest up to her. "Woody—well, the person that Woody has been for the last two weeks—is a suspect in Seely's case."

"The Montelli shooting?" Garret asked. At least he hadn't said the Knaub murder. Woody hadn't done that, wasn't guilty of murder.

"That's the one," Jordan agreed. "I suppose we _ought_ to turn him in. Honestly, though, I have no idea where he is."

"Cross our hearts and hope to die," Nigel added.

Garret grunted, shaking his head as he left the room. Lily touched Jordan's shoulder. "I'm glad he's alive, Jordan. For everyone's sake. I'm glad he's alive."

Bug led Lily out of the room, and Jordan looked at Nigel just as her phone rang. She rushed for it, nearly knocking it off the desk. "Hello?"

"Jordan? It' s me. I have something for you."

* * *

He knew that what he needed to nail Montelli was out there, and he also figured he would be the only one looking for it. Montelli was slime, and it wouldn't be hard to find the trail he left behind. All it would take was looking in the right place, talking to the right people. People everyone normally overlooked. If the bastard hadn't killed Andrea, she could have told Will/Woody/whoever he really was what he needed to know. Since she was gone, he would have to settle for the next best thing, the friends she'd made on the street.

She'd dragged him to the same street corner once a week to talk to two of them—she swore she wasn't in contact with the rest. He called it her charity mission because she took them food from the diner and tried to convince them to give up the streets. Usually, she left angry, the other girls screaming curses at her back.

"_Why do you bother?" he asked as Andrea wiped tears out of her eyes, sniffling. He reached into his pockets and found the handkerchief she insisted on getting him when she picked up a new set of clothes for him at some secondhand store. He gave it to her, and she blew her nose loudly._

"_I can't let it go on," Andrea said finally. "I got myself out, but it's not enough. I have to get them to see they can leave, too."_

"_Maybe they really don't want to, Andrea. You can't force them."_

"_I still have to try," she insisted, and he stared at her for a moment, wondering why this felt so familiar."If I had listened to Jenny sooner..."_

He stopped. He only remembered Andrea mentioning "Jenny" once. She never did again, wouldn't talk about her. It was important, but he didn't know why. He reached the corner where two low-end hookers waited without success for a John to come by. One was a tall bleach blonde, the other a short redhead. Both were dressed garishly.

"We don't do freebies," the sour-looking redhead snapped as he came closer.

"I don't want a hooker," he assured them. "I want to talk to you about Andrea."

"You a cop?" the redhead demanded.

"He's too dirty to be a cop, Ruby," the blonde said. "Hey, wait, I remember you. You're Andrea's guy, aren't you? She-it. The man himself. Heard you did us all a favor with Montelli."

"I guess you could say that," he said with a shrug.

"He's in the hospital, ain't he? Everyone knows you popped him two," she nudged Ruby. "Maybe it's time, you know. Andrea said we could do it, go straight. That he would protect us. He got rid of Montelli."

"Andrea's still dead," Ruby said coldly. "Don't be stupid, Sheila."

"Yeah, but that just leaves Ten-Man, and he's no match for Will here," Sheila insisted. She looked him over and licked her lips. He repressed a shudder. In other circumstances, Sheila might have been attractive, but she was wearing clothes that didn't fit, make-up enough for a clown, and well...there was no telling where she had been.

Ruby snorted. "He's scrawny."

He shook his head, ignoring her insults. "Why did Montelli kill Andrea? And who is Ten-Man?"

"You protect me, and I'll tell you," Sheila said. "Oh, and Ruby, too."

Ruby quickly shook her head. "Hell, no. I ain't that stupid. Jenny's dead. Andrea's dead. And he ain't gonna save you, Sheila."

"Maybe not," Sheila said. "But I want to die clean. No more drugs. No more men who have to be drunk or high to pay for me. So, Will, you gonna do it?"

This was a bad idea. And he knew it. "I bet you could get a job from Mic. He'd do anything for friends of Andrea's."

"So you'll be there?" Sheila asked. "At the diner?"

"Yeah," he agreed. So far, he knew more than he had before, he had a name: Ten-Man. He could use that. And he needed whatever else Sheila would give him. He didn't see much of a choice. "I'll be there."

* * *

Jordan walked into Seely's office and set the file on his desk. He quickly finished his conversation and hung up the phone. "What is this?"

"All the information that Nigel and I could dig up on a man who calls himself Ten-Man. I have a source who says he is Montelli's partner in a squeeze on low-level prostitutes in the south side."

Seely blinked. "What?"

Woody had been busy, Jordan thought miserably. She didn't want to tell Seely that it was Woody, of all people, that he suspected of murdering two people in cold blood. She pointed to the file, knowing that Seely would find the notes that Woody had made just as familiar as she had. "Your suspect—Andrea's bodyguard—has done your work for you. He left this for me at the morgue. I came as soon as I got it."

"And why should I trust this guy?" Seely demanded. "He shot a cop."

"Just look at the file," Jordan ground out.

It took thirty seconds for Seely to recognize Woody's handwriting. "Shit. Hoyt. This guy was working with Hoyt?"

Jordan shrugged. She wasn't going to tell Seely that Woody _was_ that guy, not yet. "Woody was on vacation before the explosion. After Lu died... He took some time. He wasn't really talking to me. If he looked into this, it was completely on his own."

Seely nodded, flipping through the file some more. Woody had apparently gotten a name—_one _name—from Andrea's friends and run with it, tracking Ten-Man, aka Charlie Nomm, and Montelli for the past three weeks. Montelli even had Ten-Man down as an official snitch, making the connection impossible to deny. Ten-Man was a pimp and also the muscle that roughed up unprotected girls like Andrea. Montelli's specialty was abusing his power, arresting them without proof, getting them longer jail times and higher fines unless they agreed to what he wanted.

One thing didn't make sense, though. _Why._ What could they possibly gain from girls who barely made enough to get by?

That was one question that Woody's research hadn't answered. She suspected—he probably did, too— that his sources knew, but he must not have been able to convince them to tell him. Or he just hadn't bothered to tell the rest of them. She wished that she'd been able to talk to him for more than his "check the garage" and then click phone call earlier.

Seely looked at her. "Wait a minute. This tracks the guy since Hoyt died. How is that possible?"

Jordan opened her mouth to answer and was interrupted by her phone. She held up a finger and flipped it open. "Cavanaugh."

"If I'm really Hoyt," he began, the words irritating her to no end, "then I have an apartment or something, right? Clothes? Money? A gun?"

"Yes, you have—wait a minute, what the hell do you want with a gun?"

Her only answer was a dial tone.


	5. Led Astray

**Lost Pretense**  
******Chapter Five: Led Astray  
**Rating: R (gonna do that to be on the safe side, applies to subject matter)  
**Word Count:** 2,083  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan. Okay, I can, but only season 1.  
**Summary:** He wasn't who everyone thought he was. He wasn't even who _he_ thought he was.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan (kind of sort of)  
**Author's Note: **Apologies for the long delay. I had this whole chapter written, but while typing/editing it, I changed something that made the first scene not fit with the rest of what I had written, and so I was kind of stuck. I finally got past that block and then my computer died. I've been without one for two weeks, unable to access the file, but I finally found it on a flash drive and hijacked a computer for a while, so here it is...

* * *

**Led Astray**

He found it surprisingly easy to break into Hoyt's apartment. For a cop, he had a lousy taste in locks. Maybe it was because he was expecting his status as a cop or even his gun to deter intruders, but it seemed ridiculous. A cop, of all people, should have better locks.

He surveyed the place. He didn't recognize anything. Was he _really_ at home here? It didn't feel lived in. It was clean. Was Hoyt—was _he—_anal, a neat freak or was he just catching the place on a random clean day? Maybe it had been done after the explosion. He ignored the kitchen, despite the protests of his stomach.

The closet was the first place he raided, finding a duplicate of the jacket that he now wore. He discarded the dirty one on the ground, setting the clean one on the bed to use later. Rummaging through the dresser until he found a pair of jeans and a clean shirt. He found a duffel and packed a few additional changes of clothes.

He took a set of clean clothes into the bathroom, stripping out of his filthy clothes and stepping into his first shower since Andrea's death. The water was scalding, but it felt good. Cleansing.

Finished, he dressed and went back to the bedroom, rooting through the likely places until he found Hoyt's gun. He put that in his coat pocket and grabbed the duffel. Apparently, Hoyt didn't keep cash lying around. It was... annoying to learn about who he supposedly was secondhand. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know Hoyt. The name, for one, and a few jumbled memories—a blond he'd been with, Jordan had seen them together and she looked... _betrayed_, strangling a man with his bare hands, not stopping—No, he wasn't sure he _wanted_ to understand Hoyt.

"I knew you'd be here," Jordan said, her voice stopping him in his tracks.

"Wasn't that hard to figure out," he countered. "Besides, if I _am_ Hoyt, I have a right to...all this."

She winced at his mocking tone. He guessed that her precious Woody was not concerned with money. Sure, he must have changed over the years, but there was a definite "country bumpkin" to the early memories of "his" time with Jordan. She looked pained, and he hated doing it to her, but it was better if she didn't think of him as this "Woody" she cared so much about.

"Not the gun, Woody. Give it to me," she ordered, holding out her hand.

He looked at her. She was either insane or stupid. Probably the former. "No."

She sighed. He shrugged, daring her to try and take it. He knew she wasn't that stupid. She folded her arms, intent on blocking his path. "How did you know my number?"

"I have to go, Jordan. I can't stay here. I promised Sheila protection, and Ruby might be there, too. Ten-Man's still on the loose, and I have no idea why he and Montelli were squeezing the girls or why killed Andrea."

"Woody—"

"Look, please don't call me that. It's—It's not who I am. Maybe who I was, but I'm not sure I _was_ Hoyt. And whatever I am, whoever I am, has to wait until Andrea's killer and the man who scared her senseless are behind bars," he said, surprising himself.

"Now that," Jordan said, tears in her eyes, "sounded _exactly_ like Woody."

He shook his head. He didn't care what she said. He was not Woody. This was hard on her, he knew that, but it wasn't easy for him, either. "I have to go, Jordan."

"You didn't answer me," she said, still not moving. "How did you get my cell number?"

He tried to move past her, tried to ignore her tears. She caught his arm, wrapped herself around him, tears wetting his clean shirt. He stopped struggling, put his arms around her. This was familiar. Comfortable. _Routine._ But Jordan didn't strike him as a woman who cried much—if at all.

"I have to go," he repeated. "But pretty soon, we're going to have to talk about this... long, sordid history of ours."

"You're avoiding the question," she observed. "Why won't you tell me?"

He sighed. She was still clinging to him, refusing to let go. She should. He wasn't the person she wanted him to be. "Because..."

"Because?"

"It was the only number I remembered," he admitted reluctantly. "I didn't know whose it was, just that I called it enough to have it stick."

She frowned, looking up from his chest. "But if you knew the number...why didn't you call it?"

"I wasn't sure I wanted to know who I was. And for all I knew, it was a pizza place or something," he tried to dismiss the significance she was giving it. She wouldn't let him, he could see it in her face. "I knew I cared about whoever was on the other end of that number. I couldn't risk involving them in whatever I've gotten mixed up in."

"You don't even _know_ what you're mixed up in, Woody," she began. "This is dangerous. Please don't do this alone."

"Jordan, let me go," he insisted, uncurling her fingers from his shirt and pushing her away. She slipped out of his reach, still managing to block the door. He sighed. "Please."

"I can't. I love you, Woody."

He felt like Clark Gable, delivering on of the most infamous movie lines ever as he looked at her. "It doesn't matter. I don't know you."

This time he got past her, got to the door, and walked out. He was unwilling to wait for the elevator, hurrying down the stairs. He reached the bottom, out of breath. He frowned. It had been too long since he ate. He closed his eyes, leaning against the wall.

He heard Jordan calling his name—_Woody's_ name—as he collapsed.

* * *

"I think it's an infection," Jordan said as she paced the room. She'd nearly panicked when he collapsed, but she'd pulled herself together enough to get him into her car and to the morgue. It wasn't a hospital—_everyone _kept telling her that—but she knew that she couldn't take him to one. He was too recognizable, as Woody Hoyt or as the suspect in Seely's case.

"Not much of a surprise here," Garret agreed. "I doubt he's had any real medical treatment since the explosion."

They all agreed it was Woody. The shower he'd taken at his apartment—he'd looked so _good_ after it—had brought back some of his natural color to his hair, and there was no mistaking the eyes. No one knew exactly what happened, but Jordan had a pretty good theory.

"He must have been trying to open the car door when the bomb blew and the explosion threw hi. He must have hit his head...and some of the bruises are from that... but the rest..."

"We don't have all the facts, Jordan. Wait before jumping to conclusions," Garret said. He looked at Woody. They'd put him on a slab in trace at first, but it creeped everyone out—only days ago, they'd thought he was dead. Now hew was on the couch, muttering in his sleep.

"I didn't think Woody knew any foreign languages," Bug muttered sarcastically. Maybe it was sleep, maybe it was delirium, but the words were pure gibberish.

"I have the x-rays," Nigel announced as he came back into the room, holding up an envelope. "I have to say, Woodrow took quite a hit."

"Damn," Jordan muttered, looking at the films, "He's lucky to be alive."

"Um, guys," Lily broke in, "shouldn't we get Woody to a place where he can be treated?"

"No, we have to do it here," Jordan insisted. "Seely is looking for a Woody—he doesn't _know_ it's Woody—in the Knaub case. And we still don't know who killed—who _tried _ to kill Woody in the first place."

"Or who really died in that car," Garret added.

Woody moaned, rolled over, and stumbled to his feet. He brushed past the newest addition to the staff and towards the back of the crypt. He would escape through the freight elevator again. Kate blinked then frowned. "Wasn't that the dead detective?"

The others looked at Jordan. She shook her head. "His brother. Lot of family resemblance there."

Kate fixed Jordan with a stony glare. "You're a bad liar. This fax came in. Apparently, everything with the name Hoyt gets forwarded to you, Dr. Cavanaugh. Including this."

Jordan took the paper from her hand and scanned it with a frown. "Oh, God. Cal."

"What is it?" Garret asked, putting a hand on Jordan's shoulder.

"It's Cal. He was reported missing three weeks ago. There was suspicion of foul play. This doesn't make sense. Cal has vanished. Woody's car exploded. And... And now... Now Woody's is..."

"Jordan, why don't you get some rest? You've been at this," Garret paused and looked over at Kate before continuing, "Knaub case for hours. Nigel, why don't you make sure Jordan gets home safely?"

Jordan frowned, but she let Nigel lead her away.

* * *

"They started to think you weren't coming," Mic accused.

Woody/Will/Whoever he really was shook his head, wishing he could rid himself of the pain and fog as easily. He'd stopped at a drug store for some painkillers but they weren't enough. He still had a fever, was barely on his feet, and his head felt disconnected. "Had a brush with an overzealous doctor. Thank you for taking them in, Mic."

"Friends of yours and Andrea's are welcome here," Mic couldn't seem to bring himself to call him by the name that he'd been using. Will/Woody didn't think that was a good sign. He knew that it wasn't her name. He wasn't Will, but he wasn't comfortable with Woody or Woodrow, either. "Sheila's good. Done well today. Though that Ruby..."

"I know. She has an attitude problem," he agreed, accepting the cup of coffee Mic handed him. It looked black as tar, but maybe it would clear his head. He looked around the diner. Ruby was mopping the floor like she wanted to hurt it. Sheila had a table of customers, but she was greeting them happily, a born waitress.

"You look different," Mic's voice was more accusing this time. He figured that it was because the resemblance to Hoyt was stronger now.

"They're looking for me. I can't afford to stay the same. We'll talk more about it later. I need to take the girls back to their place. I swear I'll tell you as much as I can when we can talk privately. I owe you that, Mic, and don't think I've forgotten," he promised. He looked at the girls again. "Ruby won't stick it out. But you have a good worker in Sheila."

"Yeah," Mic agreed. "But how long are _you_ going to stick it out, _Hoyt?"_

"Hoyt's dead. Didn't you read that in the papers?" he didn't wait for an answer. "Stick to Will."

"There you are," Sheila said, wrapping an arm around his. "I made fifty bucks today, and I only worked three hours!"

He smiled at her. Ruby glared at him. He was pretty sure her tips hadn't been as good. She probably thought she could have made more on her back. "Maybe we should find Ruby a job at some place like the DMV."

Sheila laughed. "I like you. I'd do you for free."

Startled, he blinked. An image of Jordan, naked, flashed through his mind. He had a feeling that it wouldn't go away anytime soon. "That's not what my protection is about, Sheila."

"All right, all right," she said, letting go of his arm and shrugging. "Just saying is all."

"Come on, ladies," he said, "Let's get you tucked in for the night."

* * *

"We may have a problem."

"What?"

"There's a rumor going around that Hoyt's alive."

"That _is_ a problem."

"We're not sure how it could have happened."

"Obviously, we underestimated Hoyt. Trail Cavanaugh. She'll lead us right to him, if he is alive. And this time, there will be no misunderstandings."

"What if Cavanaugh doesn't lead us to him? He kept her out of this."

"Then threaten her—do whatever you want, but don't kill her, not until Hoyt shows himself. And he will. He will move to protect her."

"And then?"

"Kill her. She has interfered enough."


	6. Turning Point

**Lost Pretense**  
******Chapter Six: Turning Point  
**Rating: R (gonna do that to be on the safe side, applies to subject matter)  
**Word Count:** 2,160  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan. Okay, I can, but only season 1.  
**Summary:** He wasn't who everyone thought he was. He wasn't even who _he_ thought he was.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan (kind of sort of)  
**Author's Note: **Being still in possession of hijacked computer, I have typed another section of the story... something seems to be missing from this chapter, but I am not sure what that is... And I got a lot of "update soons" in the reviews. I guess I should be ashamed of how long it took me to update last time...

* * *

**Turning Point**

"Okay," Jordan began, "I think I miss the law-abiding guy I used to know."

Woody sat on a stool across from her. She had walked in the door to find him already there. He was drinking a beer and eating a piece of pizza—just the way she liked it—and didn't offer so much as an apology. With the little things that he did that were like he never left, it was hard to remember that _he_ didn't remember. More had come back to him, she could tell, but he seemed almost to fight it.

He didn't _want_ to be Woody Hoyt. She didn't know why, but she didn't like it.

"You prefer meeting face-to-face," his voice pulled her back into the present.

"So—you know something?" she asked, curious. He hadn't been around in a while, hadn't called, and it had worried her. Now he was here, and she was not sure she was happy about it. She _should _be, but he was making it difficult.

"Whatever Montelli and Ten-Man were up to, it was big, and it scares the girls senseless. If Andrea was alive, I think she'd tell me, but.. every time Sheila comes close, Ruby shushes her," Woody said, taking a large bite of his pizza. He swallowed it down with the beer.

"Woody," she began, reaching for her own beer, "don't you think maybe you should just—"

"I am _not_ turning myself in, Jordan. I know you think that you could help me, but the truth is, Montelli has the sympathy right now. Even though the rumors are flying that he was dirty and even that he might have killed...me, he looks like a hero. And the only thing I can plead in my defense—Jordan, I shot the bastard _twice, in the back—_is that he was scum. He killed Andrea." Woody rose angrily and started to pace a little. "And I _need_ to know why."

Jordan sighed. It hurt the most when he sounded like Woody. He was half-Woody, half-not, and it was killing her. She wanted him to regain his memories. She was afraid that he was still fighting them.

"What about the rest of it?" she demanded. "The explosion? Cal's disappearance?"

"When this is over—or I remember—I'll deal with it. For now..." He shrugged. He didn't seem to care, and that wasn't Woody. He cared. Sometimes too much.

She fought tears. Her voice broke. "I want you back."

He looked at her, setting down the beer as he studied her face. "Listen, whatever was between you and Hoyt—me—hell—I can't... I'm screwed up as it is. And I want to know what happened before I become... What I was."

"Woody..."

He moved towards her, pulling her close enough to kiss her, long and deep. She tasted beer and pizza but also him. She missed him. And he missed her, too. She could tell. He stepped back and leaned his head against hers. "The confusing thing is, I think I'm in love with you. That scares the crap out of me. It's not just knowing... It's that it isn't safe. Not now. It _won't_ be safe, not until I know what is going on, what really happened to me..."

"Then we'll find out. We'll finish this, Woody. And we'll do it together," she promised him.

He shook his head, moving farther away from her. She knew better than to cross the distance between them. If she pushed, he'd run, and she didn't know when she'd see him again. It was weird to be on the other side for a change, to be the one left wondering and worrying about someone who had ran. "I have to go. It's time to meet Sheila and Ruby."

She sighed. He was still refusing to let her help, to tell her anything more than he _had_ to. He didn't trust her. "Be careful."

"I am."

"Liar."

"Look who's talking," he shot back. Then he grimaced and reached for his beer. He drank it quickly, swallowing hard. He lowered his head for a few moments before looking back at her. "_Why?"_

"What?" she asked, confused.

"I can't figure it out. In most of the memories that I surfaced, Hoyt is an irritating, naive fool or an arrogant prick. Why do you want him back?" Woody ran his finger along the neck of the bottle as he frowned.

"Because you—he—_you_ are the man I love, as screwed up as you are. And I have my issues, too, Woody," she told him. "You'll have to remember them sometime."

He nodded doubtfully. "Sure..."

* * *

"You owe me a conversation," Mic said as he put the coffee down in front of him. Woody—he was starting to think of himself as Woody, as much as he didn't want to and he blamed Jordan for that—Will knew that Ruby was cleaning the bathrooms, and Sheila was in the back, learning to cook from Mic's cousin, Jerry. It hadn't taken long for Jerry to fall for Sheila or for her to return his feelings. Mic's diner was already a family establishment, but it looked like the family was growing—or at least it would when Sheila was safe and happily married.

Ruby, on the other hand...

Will shook his head and picked up the coffee. "I can't tell you much."

"I don't care," Mic countered. "I want to know. Hell, I _deserve _to know."

"I know, Mic. I told you I'd tell you. I don't know _what_ to tell you. According to Jordan Cavanaugh and a few others, I _am_ Woody Hoyt," he began, studying the coffee cup. "I don't remember much. I think that someone tried to kill Hoyt—me—and after that, I got amnesia. Now... I'm mixed up in what happened to Andrea and until I find out who killed her, I can't go back. If I ever _do_ go back..."

Mic nodded. "Don't like who you were?"

"Not particularly. I only remember bits and pieces, but it seems like I was either too naive or too egotistical. Neither of which makes sense... And I... I get the sense there's things that I don't _want_ to remember. A lot, actually." He downed the coffee. It burned, but that almost felt good.

Mic started to ask another question, but Sheila came bouncing in from the kitchen. "Jerry wants to take me out on Friday!"

Woody/Will wondered why Jerry was waiting until Friday. Sheila would have gone that night. And Woody would have been fine leaving her with Jerry. The man was a bear and would protect Sheila with his life. "That's great, Sheila."

Sheila leaned over and kissed his cheek. Woody forced a smile. He felt uneasy and turned towards the window. "Mic, I think you'd better call the police. Sheila, you and Jerry stay in the kitchen. Get behind something and stay there. Ruby, don't leave the bathroom."

"Will," Sheila began, but he waved her off. He took out his gun and went outside the diner, walking boldly across the street towards the man who had set off what was probably his cop's intuition. He undid the safety as he recognized Ten-Man.

"So, I guess Montelli had the balls, huh?" he taunted as he got close.

"I ain't scared of you. Look at you. Scrawny-ass white boy who oughta be sailing at Cape Cod or some shit," Ten-Man spat tobacco on the ground.

Woody/Will looked at the mess and back at the pig in front of him. Charlie Nomm was a pimp, a stereotypical one at that, and it bothered Will. He did not think that he was looking at the true mastermind of the plot, and Montelli hadn't been it, either. He narrowed his eyes at him. "You underestimate me, and it will be the last mistake you have a chance to make."

"Cute, whitey, but you didn't exactly finish the job with Montelli," Ten-Man spat on the ground again. Will's grip tightened on his gun.

"I hear he'll be lucky if he walks again."

Ten-Man laughed. "So? You didn't kill him."

Woody studied the other man. "Sounds like you wish I had."

The pimp shrugged. His breath was foul, even from five feet away. "Montelli was greedy. You, on the other hand, I can't figure out. What's a clean-cut white boy want with some dirty hoes who ain't got sense enough to have pimps?"

"It isn't the money," Woody joked, not backing away, even though he wanted to avoid the stench. Either that, or he was probably going to shoot the scum in front of him.

"Ain't the sex, either. They're not that good. So, why?"

"I liked Andrea. Montelli killed her. I can't get him, but there's always _you._"

"Ah, so you're to blame for the squeeze the pigs been puttin' on me," Ten-Man observed. "Oughta kill you for that. But all I wants them hoes back."

Damn. He would have to involve Jordan in this. He'd been trying to avoid that. He didn't think that he had all the pieces. It wasn't something that Sheila or Ruby had, but something they _were._ Still, without a way of getting the truth from them, he'd need whatever Jordan and her friends could give him.

"They're out. And you'll have to come through me to get them."

"Gladly," Ten-Man agreed, starting to raise his gun. Sirens wailed in the distance, too far away to be useful. Woody threw himself to the ground as shots rang out—damn, that sounded like a _machine_ gun—and tore through Ten-Man.

Will—Woody—he _really_ needed to make up his mind on the name issue—crawled over into the alley. The bullets hit the stone of the building, but he was out of their reach, or at least their angle. He wasn't sure if this was about Ten-Man, but he thought it was more likely about whatever had almost gotten Hoyt killed.

The sirens were getting closer, and the gunfire had stopped. He continued down the alley and crossing over to the next street. He kept on, dodging the traffic and few people crazy enough to be out at this time of night. He found a bar that was familiar and went inside, wondering how he knew this place.

He found a back table and a scotch, downing it as the memories hit him. Dancing with Jordan. Talking to Max. This had been Max's bar, and this was where they came. This was where they celebrated their victories, where they drank away their losses. This was... He _knew_ this place. He _remembered _this place.

He didn't _want _to remember.

He wanted to remember why they were trying to kill him. He did not want to remember how he had fallen in love with Jordan, how he had been accepted by her father and her friends, how he had... The rest was out there, just beyond his reach, and he wanted it to stay that way.

Was it over? Did Ten-Man's death mean that Ruby and Sheila were safe or did it just complicate things? Ten-Man wasn't the ring-leader. And now Woody didn't know how they would find out who that was. Unless Ruby and Sheila knew more than they were telling...

And figuring out who he was was now an issue. Since Hoyt was dead—in public opinion—and the killers thought they'd gotten away with it, he hadn't been as worried about remembering exactly what had almost gotten him killed. Now, he had no choice. He couldn't go on ignoring it. He needed... help.

The only thing close to a shrink he was willing to trust—or could remember—was Lily. And she was at the morgue. He'd probably run into Jordan, though if he was lucky, she'd get the call to deal with Ten-Man's body.

He doubted that he was that lucky. Still, he knew that he didn't have a choice. He finished his scotch and left the bar, making his way towards the morgue. He snuck in through the back elevator, accidentally bumping into a doctor the was _sure_ that he didn't know, not even a little, when he went to what he remembered as Lily's office.

The blond folded her arms over her chest as she studied him. "You're remarkably well-preserved, Detective."

"You're not," he muttered, thinking of her sour expression. "I doubt you'll tell me, but where is Lily?"

"Probably in the ladies' room," she mused dryly.

Her advice wasn't wrong. He cornered a pregnant Lily—that he did _not_ remember—and asked if she could help him. The words choked in his mouth.

But Lily smiled and led him into the conference room.


	7. Conflicting Truths

**Lost Pretense**  
******Chapter Seven: Conflicting Truths  
**Rating: R (gonna do that to be on the safe side, applies to subject matter)  
**Word Count:** 2,804  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan. Okay, I can, but only season 1.  
**Summary:** He wasn't who everyone thought he was. He wasn't even who _he_ thought he was.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan (kind of sort of)  
**Author's Note: **Computer issues resolved. I have my own again. :) Here is the long awaited Woody/Lily scene (well, maybe not long awaited, but... It is probably my favorite scene of the whole story.) And yes, I am evil.

* * *

**Conflicting Truths **

Jordan studied the body of Charlie Nomm, better known as Ten-Man, with disgust. _Woody, you better not have had anything to do with this._ Seely had caught the case, even before the victim was identified, since no one had been hired to take Woody's place yet. The detective that had replaced Lu was a bull-headed prick who bounced from city to city when the complaints got too high. Jordan had never thought she'd prefer Seely, but she was actually relieved to see him, even if he was already biased and chasing Woody for an attempted murder that was almost justifiable... almost.

"Well?" Seely asked.

"Ten rounds, most in the chest," Jordan told him, shrugging. "Maybe more. He's...a mess. Is that part of his intestine?"

Seely rolled his eyes. "Come on, Cavanaugh. I'm not going to go green at the sight of innards, not like some people. Uh..."

Jordan waved her hand dismissively. It didn't matter because Woody wasn't dead, but then Seely didn't know that. "I'd say you're looking for some heavy firepower. Judging from the rounds that missed, the shooter was probably across the street, in that building. Any witnesses?"

"Oh, yeah. Don't tell me you didn't recognize that diner."

Jordan looked back at the diner. Her stomach had fallen when she recognized it, when she realized that the dead body could be Woody's. When she saw that it wasn't, she'd been almost dizzy with relief. Still, she knew that Woody had been here. He had damn well better be okay.

"Seems our missing bodyguard offered his services to two other hookers. He was at the diner, when out to meet this lovely specimen of humanity, and then the shooting started. All of them swear he didn't do it," Seely finished. "They're lying."

Jordan shook her head. Seely was a moron. "There's no way. Even if he had access to a machine gun, he would never have been able to get that close."

Seely sighed. "Do you _always_ have to disagree with me?"

"I don't know. I guess that depends on whether or not I can talk to the witnesses," she answered with a shrug. She was dying to talk to Ruby and Sheila. Woody refused to tell Jordan where they were, and she knew that even with the help of the entire morgue, she would never find the women Woody was sheltering unless he _wanted _her to find them. She almost kicked herself for not remembering the diner, but then again, it seemed so _obvious. _It was too predictable. That was why she had dismissed it. She hadn't expected Woody to leave himself so open, the girls so vulnerable.

Damn. She wished he had a cellphone. Any phone. She'd give him hell for this.

Seely grunted, but he didn't stop her from talking to anyone. She approached Mic first. He regarded her wary, clearly defensive. Great. Seely was barking up the wrong tree again. "He didn't shoot anyone. He's innocent, and that damn detective is railroading him."

"Forensics don't lie. They'll back your story. And I _won't_ let them railroad him," she promised. "What happened?"

"He came for the girls. Had coffee. Sheila told him that she had a date, and then he got spooked. Told me to call the police, for everyone to take cover. And he walked up to that bastard—kid's got balls, he does. Wasn't scared at all. Then all hell breaks loose. He ducked, the other one didn't. The cops got close; the shooting stopped. He was gone. Shooter, too, I guess," Mic said, passing her a coffee.

She took it gratefully. It wasn't the average diner coffee, black as pitch and older than dirt, but strong and fresh. She sighed deeply, and Mic smiled at her. "Was everyone out here?"

"Well, Ruby was in the bathroom—he told her to stay there, but she didn't. Then the shooting started, and she went back in. Doubt she saw much," Mic considered thoughtfully. "Jerry and Sheila were here."

Jordan thanked Mic for the coffee and went to talk to Jerry. He kept looking at Sheila, checking on her. He wasn't shaken up, but he was worried about her. Jordan figured he was Sheila's date, and she wished them luck. Jerry's story matched Mic's. Woody had apparently sensed Ten-Man's presence and gone out to confront him. A shooter had gotten Ten-Man, but Woody escaped. No one knew where he had gone, but Jerry had already promised to see Sheila and Ruby safely home.

Jordan was about to ask him where that home was, but then she saw Sheila and excused herself. She reached Sheila just as Ruby did.

"I want to go home," Ruby whined. "I _need _to go home."

Jordan looked at the other woman, who smelled a little of vomit and wore a shirt that stretched too tightly against her stomach. Wait a minute—was Ruby _pregnant? _Damn it. Next time she spoke to Woody, she was telling him to get a cellphone. Or she'd just buy him one. One of the cheap disposable ones. This was ridiculous. She needed to talk to him. Now.

"That detective said we could go," Sheila agreed nervously. "Let's get Jerry."

"I'm not waiting," Ruby said. "Creepola's dead. Don't need protection."

Sheila glared at her. "Yes, we do. Who the hell do you think killed Creepola? Think about it, Rube. We're not free. Not yet. Let me get Jerry."

"You know," Jordan began. "We could help you—"

"Will warned us about you," Ruby said, watching Sheila approach Jerry. He grabbed his coat and started towards them. "I ain't tellin' you _shit."_

That was it, Jordan thought. When she found Woody, she'd kill him herself.

* * *

"You know, I'm not trained for this," Lily began.

"I don't want a shrink, Lily. I think...I think I hate them, don't ask me why," he said, sitting down across from her. He didn't like the conference room. It was too open, too exposed. Hopefully everyone would just assume that Lily was with a grieving family and not disturb them.

"I don't really know much about memory loss, Woody."

"You're pretty good at talking me out of this," he observed dryly.

She blushed. "Woody, I'm sorry. I'm just not used to this kind of counseling. Why don't we start at the beginning?"

"Are we talking the beginning as in my _childhood _or the first thing I remember?"

He made her laugh with that one. He liked the way she laughed. It was familiar, comforting. She looked at him. _"Do _you remember anything about your childhood?"

He thought about it for a moment. A sick feeling of nausea overtook him as he saw the flash of a belt buckle on a man in a deputy's uniform who reeked of alcohol, but it was gone quickly. He shook his head. "No. Not really. Jordan said I had a brother. That he's missing. But I don't remember him. It doesn't seem real."

Lily nodded. "Do you remember anything from before Boston?"

He shook his head. "I'm thinking I burned some bridges there, but I don't _know. _That's what makes this so damn frustrating. And Jordan—she wants the 'old' me back. It's too much. And I—I'm not entirely happy with who I was. Or how I feel about Jordan."

This subject clearly interested Lily, but she held herself back. "About the explosion..."

"I don't remember it. I woke up in the alley—that's the first memory I have that I trust completely. My head was pounding. I saw the wreck, but I didn't hear the sirens. Couldn't. So I knew I'd been close. I did know I didn't know who I was or how I'd gotten there. When the police wanted to stop me, I ran. Ran like a criminal, ran in fear. I still don't know what set me off that day, but I don't trust the police. Even if everyone says I _am _the police. I found a homeless shelter. They helped me. I guess they figured that I burned them over a trash can or something.

"Later that night, I disarmed a meth addict who tried to rob me. I took him to a hospital, spent the night at the shelter. Next day, I met Andrea. I moved in with her—on her couch. I walked her to work. Then I'd go to the library, look up what I could on the explosion. We had a routine. It was good, for a while anyway."

"What about the night she died?" Lily asked gently.

He studied her. "Are you sure you want to know? You'll be bound by confidentiality. You really want to know this?"

"I know you, Woody. It can't be that bad."

"I'm not who you think I am—not Woody. Not exactly. What I've done I'm not sure Woody Hoyt—at least the saintly, naive Woody that everyone seems to like—would approve. The angry, high on rage Woody—he would have done worse. I don't know—Lily, am I bipolar? Or _what?"_

"As far as I know, Woody, you are a man who—No, I'll tell you what I really think. I think you had an image of the man you felt you _had _to be, and you made yourself that man. You suppressed anything that didn't fit. And it came out when you were shot. And now... Now you are facing similar challenges. You have to adjust. _Again. _I think you found your balance before the explosion and then..."

"And then I lost it again. Lost everything," Woody finished. He took a deep breath, running his fingers through his hair. "Andrea didn't tell me about Montelli for a week. She was spooked. She told me when she asked for protection that it was from clients who wouldn't accept that she had quit. I might have known that she was lying, but I didn't care. Not enough. I figured there was time. I had my own demons. I should have done more. Andrea was... She was too young, a college kid that partied herself out of her scholarship and ended up on the streets. She was talking about trying night school. I told her to try. She finally admitted that Montelli wanted her dead.

"She never told me why. She said... she needed time. That didn't sit well with me, but I tried to give her that time. I still had who I was and what I'd done to Hoyt to consider.

"I was sitting on the couch. Andrea had just gotten out of the shower—she was teasing me... It seemed so normal, so... I was planning on going to Hoyt's funeral—turns out it was _my _funeral. I almost wish I'd gone. Thousands of mourners screaming or fainting as the dead man comes to life..."

"Woody?" Lily prompted softly. He supposed his comment was out of character for the precious "Woody" that everyone loved and missed.

"When I heard the pounding, I shoved Andrea into the bedroom. The lock wasn't the best, so I braced the door. I should have replaced the lock... Not that it mattered... He shot through the door, through me. I hit the wall... He dragged her out—she'd hidden under the bed. He shot her, twice. I knew she was dead. He was just walking away, leaving us there. I got angry. I got up, and I shot him. Twice.

"I don't know what I was thinking. I wasn't thinking clearly. But I knew with a gun in my hand, a cop dead... I thought he was dead—still wish he _was _dead... I knew I couldn't stay, had to try and... I put the gun in Andrea's hand and I left. Somehow I made it to the diner, and Mic helped me with the wound. I wandered around the city for hours until..."

He rubbed his forehead. The events of the night were obscured by the pain and shock he'd been in. he didn't know that he really trusted his memory. "I saw Jordan on the news. She was at the funeral. I knew I knew her, so I went to her for help. She told me who I was, woke up memories... I almost _hate _her for it. Does that make sense?"

Lily laughed. "Perfect sense, actually. You feel you'll lose yourself if the old Woody resurfaces. What you don't realize is that he is a part of you, and you're a part of him. You just have to learn to coexist."

He had to admit that she made sense. He rose, thanking her. She called to him as he left, but he couldn't stay. It was too much. He felt like he was drowning.

Damn Hoyt. Damn whatever it was that he had done that had gotten him into this mess.

* * *

"I swear, if you break into my apartment again, I'm turning you in," Jordan threatened wearily, walking in and setting her keys and purse on the counter.

"I brought Mexican this time," he told her, not apologizing or acknowledging her threat. He was Woody enough to know she didn't mean it. "Plus a little tequila to add to that mix because I know you've had a hard day."

"Hard day?" she snapped. _"Hard day? _ Woody, you could have been killed today. You can't stay on the streets anymore. It isn't safe."

He opened the tequila and took a swig. "It never has been. Look, Jordan, someone's cleaning up their mess. That's what's happening. Me, Sheila, and Ruby are the loose ends. And there are cops involved in this—not just Montelli—so there's no chance in hell that I'm turning myself in. I don't think Ten-Man was the target. It may have been useful to get rid of him, but they were after me. He was bait. I'm not sure if this is because of Montelli and Andrea or if it is because of whatever caused that bombing."

Because she didn't know what the hell else to do, she started making the margaritas. When she finished with the blender, he looked at her. "I spoke to Lily."

Startled, Jordan choked on her margarita. "What?"

"She couldn't really help with the memory thing, but some of the other stuff..."

"I'm glad, Woody, but—"

"I came here to tell you I was leaving. I don't know why I did. I should have just left. I can't stay in Boston. And Ruby and Sheila have to leave, too. It's too dangerous.

"You're leaving?" her heart fell into her stomach. She couldn't stand the idea of him leaving. She had to keep him here. She picked up the cellphone she'd gotten on her way home and gave it to him. He took it with a frown. "What is this?"

"I'm sick of not being able to talk to you when I want to. So, your phone. I want you to use this, Woody," she told him, going close enough to pull his lips to hers. She'd make him stay, do whatever it took. He had to let her help him. They could beat this. He could stay. He _had _to stay. She wanted him here, wanted him to know how much he meant to her.

"Jordan," he began softly, "as tempting as it is to pull you into that bedroom and never leave, I can't afford to..."

He broke off and rushed to the bathroom. She followed, hearing him wretch into the toilet. She got a towel, ran it under some cold water, and passed it to him. "You know, Farm Boy, I thought you held your liquor better than that."

He grunted. Okay, so it was more than the alcohol. She didn't know what, though. "If you think you're kissing me again, you're sadly mistaken."

He pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. "I have no intention of..._anything_ at the moment. I just remembered more than I ever wanted. Some sick slide show of the worst killings...autopsies... things I wish I could forget now."

"I'm sorry," she told him. "Come on, Woody. I think you should lay down—"

"I'm not staying. I'm fine now. I have to do this, Jordan. I have to go."

"Woody, wait. I talked to everyone at the diner. I think Ruby is pregnant," she blurted out, trying to get it out before he could run off and leave.

He got green again, but he didn't go for the toilet. He continued towards the front door. "Call Seely. Tell him I'll meet him. And I'll—I'll have everything he needs."

"What do you mean?" she demanded, rushing after him. He ignored her and opened the door. There was a horrible sound as a gun went off, and Woody fell back. She tried to scream, but her voice was gone.

Woody moaned. "Oh...damn..."


	8. Enough Knowledge to be Dangerous

**Lost Pretense**  
******Chapter Eight: ****Enough Knowledge to be Dangerous**  
**Rating:** R (gonna do that to be on the safe side, applies to subject matter)  
**Word Count:** 2,093  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan. Okay, I can, but only season 1.  
**Summary:** He wasn't who everyone thought he was. He wasn't even who _he_ thought he was.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan (kind of sort of)  
**Author's Note: **So I could have been more evil and made this wait... but I needed to post something to stop my own black mood...

* * *

**Enough Knowledge to be Dangerous**

"Woody." She's at his side before she knew she was moving. She didn't even know she could move that fast. She knelt next to him, but he was already moving again, the big oaf. He should be staying still, letting a doctor look at him, letting her take care of him.

"Idiots," he muttered. She agreed, but she was thinking more of him than the person who _shot _him. That person, whoever he or she was, would pay. She watched, stunned, as Woody rolled over and started getting to his feet.

"Wait a minute. What the hell are you doing?" she demanded, trying to push him back down.

"I'm fine," he told her. She didn't think he was, not really. He opened his jacket, the white dress shirt underneath reddened by blood. She reached towards him hesitantly. He pushed her hand away and unbuttoned the shirt. "I've gotten good at dodging bullets. They saw a little blood, figured it was a done deal. It's not. It's a graze, Jordan. Leave me alone."

His refusal to let her help him stung. "Woody, you're bleeding. Even _if _ I let you walk out that door right now, you'd leave a trail of blood anyone could follow."

Woody looked around, pointing vaguely towards the counter. "I'll take some of that first, Doctor."

She smiled a little, but she wasn't comforted by his joke. She crossed the room and grabbed the tequila, aware her hands were shaking. She had almost lost him...again. Not that she'd believed in his death before, but this was so much more real. She'd been right there. The shot should have killed him. The gun had been fired point blank. He'd managed to turn just enough to get a graze instead of a wound that would have caused internal injuries... death.

She gave him the tequila and left him using more than was medically necessary as she grabbed what she'd need to take care of the wound—gauze, disinfectant, cloth, scissors, tape—and came back to him. He had lowered the bottle for a second and was staring at his bloody shirt in disgust.

She poured some rubbing alcohol on a cloth and touched it to his side. He hissed in pain and glared at her. She persisted. She had to treat this wound, or who knew when he would actually get any sort of treatment for it? He was planning on running. She hadn't seen him this reckless since his vigilante search for Wayne Riggs. It _was _dangerous, but that just meant that he shouldn't be in this alone. He needed her help, whether he liked it or not. She cut the gauze and taped it over the wound.

Jordan found herself unable to pull back, still holding the pad over his side. Woody caught her hands and held them, looking at her. "Jordan, I don't think I'm the only one who isn't safe."

* * *

"Got a report of shots fired," the young rookie said as he walked in the still open door. In retrospect, that had been a bad idea, but neither of them had really paid any attention to it after he was shot. The officer stopped, his partner bumping into his back. "Holy shit."

Woody glared at Jordan. "I told you that we should have just left."

"You're the one that is always lecturing me on procedure," she shot back irritably. She'd been lecturing him ever since he made the suggestion. No, before. He'd been fiddling with his shirt, hating the sight of blood on his clothes. She'd offered him a new shirt, and he had _flipped out. _He didn't know why, but he couldn't stand taking a shirt from her. It wasn't his, somehow he knew that, and it bothered him. A lot. His anger pissed off Jordan, who refused to leave because he suggested it. "Besides, the whole department and the morgue knows this address. The gang would be worried, and there's no way we could hide."

He looked at her balefully. He'd hidden from her and the police successfully for over a month now. She stared back, refusing to budge an inch.

"Let me get this straight," the rookie began. "You _are _Detective Hoyt, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "So I have been told. I don't...exactly remember. And that's a very long story. Speaking of stories, I have one to tell Detective Seely. Maybe you should get him on the phone."

"Uh, sure," the rookie said, grabbing his partner and going out of earshot. Jordan looked at Woody, still pissed that he hadn't tole her what he'd figured out. If he was really lucky, he'd never have to tell her. Ever. He didn't have all he needed, either. And these cops had him trapped in her apartment. He didn't think they were a part of this—no, they were too green—but he still didn't trust them entirely. Seely he knew he could trust. There was no way Seely was involved in this.

He glanced at the cops. The doorway was open, and it beckoned. Jordan caught his arm. "Woody, you need to talk to Seely. You said you were going to anyways."

"I lied," he said, watching her expression crumple briefly. She had to get it through her head. He was _not _her Woody. He never would be. "We're going to die because of a damn shirt, you know that?"

"You're the one who didn't take it," she snapped.

"Excuse me if I didn't want one of Pollack's leftovers," he shot back without thinking.

"What?" she demanded, stunned.

"I don't _know," _he muttered. He didn't know. It was an overload of everything, his senses, his mind. His head was pounding. He couldn't hardly see, and he choked back vomit. "Who the hell is _Pollack?" _

"Detective Hoyt, are you—"

He held up a hand and ran into the bathroom. His stomach was empty, other than the "medicinal" tequila, which was quickly gone as well. His gag reflex just wouldn't quit. After ridding his stomach of half the acid it usually had, he was finally able to stop. Jordan was next to him, their quarrel forgotten as she stroked his back and helped him clean himself up again.

"I, uh, called for paramedics," the rookie said. "Detective Hoyt—Dr. Cavanaugh, is he all right?"

The particular he in question felt terrible, but he chose to ignore it. He got to his feet with her help. She was going to hate him, but he had a way out now. He could escape the paramedics, get what he needed from Ruby. He knew enough of what was going on to make him sick, but he needed more from her. Specifics. Names, Dates, and Times. He would give all the information to Seely and get the hell out of Boston. He didn't know where he was going, what he would do, but he knew he had to leave.

The trouble was, he had to get Jordan and the others out, too.

* * *

"Gone?" Seely demanded. "How the hell do trained EMTs lose a sick, wounded man?"

"I don't know," Jordan ground out. "Believe me when I tell you you're not the only one who's pissed about this. I don't get it. Woody was _shot. _It only grazed him, but he was still _shot. _And he was throwing up like there was no tomorrow."

"Thanks for that image. Any idea where he might be?"

Jordan shook her head. "I don't know where he was staying. He wouldn't tell me. He wasn't staying with me—wasn't around much except when he decided that he had to break in. I've changed the locks three times in the last week. I guess... The diner, maybe. We could see if Ruby and Sheila are there, see if they'll tell us where—"

"Cavanaugh, are you telling me _Hoyt _ was the one who shot Montelli?" Seely interrupted angrily.

"Did I say that?" she shook her head. "I didn't say that."

"Damn it, Cavanaugh," Seely cursed, turning to leave. "Damn it."

She didn't let him get far without her. She was going to find Woody, and she was going to kill him when she found him. She got into Seely's car despite his protest and buckled herself in, refusing to get out. The drive was uncomfortable, silence oppressive, until they reached the diner.

It was closed, but lights were still on inside. Mic came to the door and opened it. He waved them inside. "He isn't here. But _they _are."

Ruby and Sheila stood. Ruby was crying, and Sheila was rubbing her back, trying to comfort her. "Will said—he said we had to tell you everything. I didn't want to, but then he... he went for his bag and he... his shirt was bloody. He said he was fine. He wasn't fine. I thought we were safe. We ain't safe."

Jordan nodded. "Okay. Tell me everything, then."

"It's..." Ruby started crying again, then cursing hormones and other things. Jordan struggled to be patient. Sheila looked at Jerry. He smiled encouragingly.

"Ruby's baby is Senator Gibson's," Sheila said. "They've done it for years. Knocked girls up, took their babies. We didn't know what they were doing with them. We didn't even care that much. Most of us can't afford ourselves, let alone a kid. We thought...thought maybe it was for the best. But then Jenny—she tried to get her baby back. She'd gotten on her feet, wanted the kid..."

Ruby composed herself a little, running a hand over her belly as she spoke. "Andrea was the one that helped Jenny. She knew about the senators, the other rich men, the police... She found Jenny's baby. She was five years old by then, cutest little thing, and I hate kids, you know?"

"They had her in a room," Sheila took over again. Ruby looked ready to vomit. "It looked really nice. Lacy stuff, lots of toys, lots of dolls. But then there's this camera..."

"Oh, god," Jordan whispered, knowing exactly what that meant. Pornography. The children had been taken for child pornography. "What happened when you found out? What happened to Jenny?"

"We never saw her again. Andrea ran; we didn't see her for weeks. Finally, she comes back. She's still scared, and she tells us Jenny was dead. Montelli killed her, covered it up," Sheila looked down. "She wanted us all to get out then. Said she had someone to trust, someone who could help us..."

"Detective Hoyt?" Jordan asked softly, getting a sharp, puzzled look from Seely.

Ruby and Sheila nodded. Sheila took a deep breath. "We heard he got killed. We didn't want to die. We knew they wouldn't hurt us if they thought we didn't know or were too scared to do anything about it. So we stayed. Andrea was mad, real mad. Then she found Will..."

"He was Hoyt. She told us he was, and she told us he'd help us," Ruby interrupted. Sheila glared at her. "He wanted to call himself Will, weren't nothin' to me. She was excited. She thought it would be over soon. Then she was dead."

"We were scared. We wanted out," Sheila said. "We didn't want to end up dead like everyone else. So we let Will help us. Now he's shot, and we're screwed. He said to trust you."

"Don't know why," Ruby muttered. Sheila elbowed her. She glared back.

Before it could turn into a Three Stooges routine, Seely cleared his throat. "Wait a minute. Why, other—than their fondness for kiddie porn—would these rich men want these kids? Why manufacture kids when they could get one from the streets or an orphanage or something?"

"They weren't just _playing _at being 'Daddy.' They _were _Daddy." Jordan explained softly, feeling weak, ready to throw up herself if Ruby didn't beat her to it.

"That's just _sick," _Seely muttered. "What about Hoyt? And this Jenny? Her kid?"

Jordan jumped as her phone rang. She dug it out and flipped it open. "Cavanaugh."

"_If Ruby and Sheila have told you everything," _Woody began, _"and they're safe, on their way to a doctor and a safe house..."_

"Yes," she agreed. They would be, soon. "Woody, I thought—"

"_Then you and Seely need to come to Fairlane and Prost. The new subdivision. They broke ground a year ago, but the job was delayed. Long enough for someone to bury a few unwanted bodies."_

"A few? Woody—" She broke off into a string of curses as she heard the dial tone. She looked at Seely and the others. "He found Jenny."


	9. Ending the Illusion

**Lost Pretense**  
******Chapter Nine: Ending the Illusion**  
**Rating:** R (gonna do that to be on the safe side, applies to subject matter)  
**Word Count:** 2,241  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan. Okay, I can, but only season 1.  
**Summary:** He wasn't who everyone thought he was. He wasn't even who _he_ thought he was.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan (kind of sort of)  
**Author's Note: **Remember at the beginning when I said this story hailed from a darker place in my mind? I wasn't kidding. Really. This section contains mentions of child abuse... Read on at own risk. I hope that's enough of a warning...

* * *

**Ending the Illusion**

They found Woody standing over a foundation. The streetlight back-lit him like a dangerous film noir detective, a dark hero. The wind rippled through his coat—the material seemed thinner than it had before—and through his hair. His eyes were dark, and they didn't leave the ground in front of him. Jordan moved close enough to see over the edge. The dirt caught in the wind, brushing over the polished white of the bones half-uncovered, like a morbid archaeological site. She felt sick, angry and sick. Next to her, Seely cursed.

"The cement's almost ready to pour," Woody whispered. "They never would have found this."

It wasn't exactly true. Maybe years from now they'd dig it all up and start over, but by then everyone who knew Jenny and the others would be dead. Their killers would have gotten away with it. She looked at Woody, wondering what dark thoughts were going through his head. "How did _you_ find them?"

She said the wrong thing—or at least, she said it the wrong way. He laughed bitterly. "You can't stand that I made the leap without you or any of your fancy scientific work, can you? But I do have some skills which need no help from you."

Stung, she stepped back. "Woody, what the hell?"

She was tired of the way he was acting, the way he'd been treating her. Sometimes he was kind, other times deliberately cool. He was trying to push her away. He sighed, looking away from the grave at last. "Andrea said she'd never live her, that this place was tainted. After I found out that Gibson himself had stopped this development, I knew they had to be here. It was a perfect place to hide them. I moved some of the dirt... At least five, from what I can tell, infants to grown women. I doubt you'll find much, but maybe... Maybe it will be enough."

"Woody," she began, her heart breaking with the guilt she saw in his eyes. "I don't think—"

"I lied, Jordan. About a lot of things, but the one that matters the most... You have to know that the Woody Hoyt you know never existed, not really. I made him up, made this person that could pretend that he'd never suffered, that his father wasn't an abusive drunk..." Woody shifted uneasily. He couldn't look at her, and she didn't want to believe him. "Cal went to drugs, but I didn't. I thought... I thought it was better if I just... forgot."

"Woody," she said gently, touching his arm. He jerked away from her. Seely, for once, had the good sense to stay quiet.

"I remember everything, Jordan," Woody's look towards her was now fueled by the same anger that had marked the days after his shooting. "It all makes sense, in a twisted way. The scheme. Andrea's fear. Ruby's pregnancy."

She didn't understand his anger or why it was directed at her. "Why?"

He knew that she wasn't talking about what he'd figured out. He winced in pain. "He didn't just beat me, Jordan. It's funny how that changes everything. There's a taint on everything that happened after that... And a shrink could make perfect sense of it all. You, me, that damned dance..."

She looked at him, swallowing hard. "Woody..."

He ignored her, turning to Seely. "I want to make a deal. You can take me in. I'll talk to Walcott. I'll tell her everything I know. And then I want to leave Boston. For good."

* * *

"You want a deal?" Renee Walcott demanded. "Shouldn't I be exhuming your body or giving you a medal?"

He looked at her, then at Seely. "You mean, he never told you?"

Seely grunted. He shifted the folders in his arms and shrugged. "Didn't get much of a chance. Got a stiff, found out you were alive, that Cavanaugh knew you were alive, that she knew you were the suspect in my case. Then you escape, and I'm looking for your sorry ass around Boston only to find a mass grave? Been busy, Hoyt."

Woody sighed. Walcott cleared her throat. "I expect you to tell me what is going on, and I expect you to do it now. Where have you been for the last month, Detective? And why should I give you a deal?"

He laughed. "Well, I doubt you'll be giving me a medal. Or that I'll work in law enforcement again. But I can give you enough to start what will become a major Federal investigation into a national child prostitution and pornography ring, complete with a few murders. In exchange, I want all charges in the Montelli case against me dropped, a proper funeral for Andrea Knaub, and a good doctor for Rachel 'Ruby' Parks."

"Anything else?" Walcott asked dryly. He could see the wheels were spinning. No one had even told her he was a suspect in Montelli's shooting, plus the scope of what he was about to uncover was far beyond what any of them had thought.

"World peace?" he offered, getting a snicker out of Seely before Walcott gave him the look of death.

"Detective Hoyt," Walcott began. "Exactly what am I dismissing?"

"Attempted murder, I guess," he answered, watching her face carefully. "After Montelli shot Andrea, after he shot me, I shot him. Twice. In the back. I was angry. Maybe temporarily insane. Arguably, with the amnesia, I was not in my right mind."

"Let me get this straight," Walcott said. "You, Detective Hoyt, shot another cop, in the back? You better have something damn good."

"I already told you that I did. Am I getting my 'get out of jail free' card or not?" he demanded impatiently. "I'd at least like a private cell so the real criminals don't kill the only cop they can get their hands on. And I'd really like to know before we get started."

Walcott sighed. "You have one hell of an attitude problem, Hoyt."

"Sorry if the obliging, obsequious version of me is gone. He never existed. I was never a happy-go-lucky dairy farmer," he shot back. "Now, do I have a deal or not?"

"Let's talk about this evidence you have," Walcott was clearly not willing to commit. Seely set the stacks of reports on the table. She looked at him and then at Woody. "Nice start."

"If reading all that paperwork bores you, run a paternity test on Ruby's baby. Or there's the mass grave I found that needs to be excavated. Montelli killed Jenny. I saw him do it. He probably killed Jenny and her daughter, too," he said. But then his lips curved in a cruel mockery of a smile. "But what will really turn your stomach is the fact that this ring has gone undetected for over twenty years."

Walcott blinked. Seely let out an expletive. Woody looked at the mirror, knowing that Jordan and maybe others were behind it. "Can I have some coffee?"

"Of course," Walcott agreed. "Are you planning on making us wait until you have it?"

He shrugged. "I'd rather have a few drinks to do this, be drunk as hell, actually. But I'll settle for coffee. And I know it will taste like shit, so I don't know why I bother."

Seely looked at Walcott. "Let's get the man a Starbucks. I already know part of it, and _I _want a drink."

"Wow, Seely. I didn't know you had sympathy in you," Woody remarked dryly. He was lashing out at everyone. He didn't want to do this. He knew what he was doing, how open and vulnerable he was leaving himself. He had finally lost all of his shields. The Dudley Do-Right version of Woody had protected him for many years, then the angry Woody, and lately his amnesia. Now there was nothing.

A knock came on the door. A uniformed officer had brought three Starbucks cups to the room. Woody took his and drank slowly. It wasn't really the type of "courage" he needed. He set it down for a minute, clearing his throat. "Kewaunee's too small for this kind of thing. That's why I never thought—but I found out I'd known all along... I'm sorry. I can't seem to get to the beginning. I think... I think it's when I went home after Lu's funeral. No. Kewaunee's not home. It never was..."

He picked up the coffee again, drank heavily for a moment. "While I was there, I went to my parent's graves. I was trying to make sense of what had happened. I was standing there, wondering what it would have been like if my mother had never died of cancer, and then there was a man next to me. I didn't know his name, but I _recognized _him. He gave me the creeps... I'd never felt that revolted in my life. And he said those damn words and brought it all back..."

He heard his own voice crack and hated himself for it. "He told me I looked just like my mother... And then I remembered that... I put the best face on the beatings Dad gave us, but I never let myself acknowledge what...else he'd done to me... I can't even remember how old I was when it started, not for sure... That night... he was whipping me with a belt... I hadn't gotten all my homework done, the dishes were dirty, and he said I deserved a spanking... He hit my hard that night. I remember the belt buckle tearing my skin, knowing that I was bleeding... And then he bent over me, his voice in my ear... whispered... _you look so much like your mother..."_

Woody shuddered. He couldn't help it. "I didn't understand right away... But his hands went low, and there was something...inside me... I couldn't fight him... Couldn't scream... If I screamed, Cal might have.. I didn't want Dad to hurt him, too."

Walcott swore. Loudly. Under other circumstances, it might have amused him. Not now. And if he stopped, he'd never get this out. "My dad made weekend trips to Milwaukee... He started taking us with him, said we'd go to a game... Cal got to go. I didn't. What I got was a hotel room, a man with a video camera, and hours with my dad or the man from the cemetery."

Seely let loose the expletives this time. Woody took his coffee again. "Apparently my films are... classics in the industry. Rare. Expensive. That's what I found out when I dug into this. And then... This thing was huge... Plenty of dirty cops involved, with my father, the bastard from Milwaukee, and Montelli only three of them...

"You know the sick thing?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. "They wanted me back, wanted me to switch roles, knock up some of the girls, and film it all... I agreed, just to get in... Then I went to an FBI agent I met during another case. He is the man who died in my car. Edward Janvers. I knew, after they took Cal, that someone had realized I would never do it. That I'd been forced—physically or by threats to Cal—I don't even know for sure that they _never _did it to him—and they knew I knew enough. They wanted me dead. They got Janvers.

"I did a lot of work with Janvers—for Janvers, I guess. I found Andrea, got her to tell us her story, about Jenny, about everything. Janvers had my statement, had hers. He had the files at his Boston office, said they were sealed until he was ready to go for a warrant. I assume they're still there. The day of the explosion... We were arguing... I didn't want to be any part of the evidence. I didn't want it to ruin my life any more than it already had. He had gotten in the car, was going to leave and get that warrant... I didn't want to let him. _I _ was his case, and I couldn't handle that. I didn't want everyone knowing what had been done to me... Some of it was so... twisted. And... I know it looks consensual.They _made _me make it look that way. Or they'd... use Cal. I told Janvers I wouldn't testify. I was planning on leaving Boston, burying myself somewhere where no one knew any of this...

"Now it doesn't matter," he finished coldly. "Do I get the damn deal or not?"

"Yes," Walcott answered quietly. "You have the deal. We'll do our damnedest to see that you don't have to testify about your own personal experience, but I don't know if the statement Agent Janvers had was enough, even if it still exists."

He nodded. He had expected as much. "I want to go now."

"Don't leave Boston yet," she warned, but she probably knew he had no intention of listening to her. "We'll need a signature for this affidavit, and we will be contacting you if we need more. Do you understand, Hoyt? You have to stay in town."

He took the paper the clerk had quickly prepared for them and signed it without reading it over. He looked at the mirror again and then back at Walcott. "I don't give a damn. I'm not going through this again. Ever."

And he turned and walked out, for good.


	10. Sweet Sorrow and Other Lies

**Lost Pretense**  
******Chapter Ten: Sweet Sorrow and Other Lies**  
**Rating:** R (gonna do that to be on the safe side, applies to subject matter)  
**Word Count:** 3.452  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan. Okay, I can, but only season 1.  
**Summary:** He wasn't who everyone thought he was. He wasn't even who _he_ thought he was.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan (kind of sort of)  
**Author's Note: **Honestly, I kind of thought everyone would stop reading after the last chapter. It was a difficult decision to go ahead and post it, and I almost never posted this story in the first place because of the idea behind it. Still... I wanted an explanation for Woody's actions on the show, one the writers never bothered to give. Mine came out dark and twisted. What can I say? I do need therapy. :P And yes, this isn't a fairy tale, so I didn't slap "Happily Ever After" at the end of it. I will add, though, that I have ideas for a happier sequel, and I feel compelled to write it.

* * *

******Sweet Sorrow and Other Lies**

He was gone.

They hadn't stopped him when he walked out of the interrogation room, probably know better than to try. She had wanted to go running after him, but Garret had caught her arm. He was right. They had to let Woody go. She'd been fighting so hard to keep him, to make him remember, and she had been _wrong. _Howie would probably say Woody _needed _to face it, to be able to move past it. She didn't agree.

She wouldn't try to find him. She wanted to, desperately wanted to, but she wouldn't. He knew how to hide when he wanted to, and he most certainly wanted to this time. He'd signed the typed statement and walked away without looking back. He asked not to be declared alive, to leave Woody Hoyt dead and buried, even if the body really belonged to Edward Janvers, FBI agent, married thirty years, father of two, grandfather of one bouncing baby boy.

She shook her head. It wasn't right. None of it was. Not what had happened to Woody, not what had happened in the investigation. There wasn't anything she could do to make it right. She couldn't even talk to him. He had ditched the cell phone she gave him in a trash can, probably before he left Boston. She didn't doubt that he had left.

Nigel had offered to track him. She had tried to refuse, but it was Nigel. He did it anyway, but he didn't find anything. It was tracking a ghost. A ghost who chose _not _to appear.

"Here's a thought, love," Nigel said, coming into her office. She looked up in surprise. Her eyes stung. She didn't know how long she'd been here, how long she'd stared off into space. She had been going through a routine, and it was okay, but it wasn't enough. She hadn't gotten involved in a case since Woody left—was it already three weeks ago?

"A thought?" Jordan asked, yawning as she stretched her sore body.

"We find Calvin."

Jordan blinked. "Cal? But—"

"Woody went through hell for Cal, didn't he?" Nigel prompted. "We all know that he did. Whatever else happened to him, Woody wouldn't abandon him."

She shook her head. "Nigel, after... after his last visit, Woody threw Cal out of his life. When Woody got shot, he didn't come. He didn't even call. Woody won't go looking for him."

"Okay, love, I don't get it. I've seen some of those bloody awful tapes since they made us 'cooperate' with the FBI, which, by the way, is a nice way of saying, _'do all their work for them,' _and I can't believe that someone who endured that to save his brother would kick him out of his life," Nigel muttered.

"Actually," Lily began hesitantly, pausing just inside the door, "since Woody repressed those memories, he didn't remember what he'd gone through for Cal."

"And if he did, he still would have kicked Cal out," Jordan insisted. "After all Woody did for him, Cal was a drug addict with a gambling problem. If I was Woody, if I'd sacrificed myself for my brother and watched him throw away what I'd given him, I'd kick his ass to the curb."

"She's got a point," Garret observed from the doorway, pushing past Lily and Nigel. "Still, it's the best idea anyone's had, and since you're useless here, go do it. If nothing else, Woody deserves to know what happened to his brother."

Jordan nodded numbly. Nigel grinned, clapping his hands together. "Shall we go to the scene of the crime?"

* * *

"This place is a dump," she said, looking at the outside of the low budget hotel where Cal had been staying before he disappeared. Once, it had been a modest hotel with a funky cowboy theme, but now it was a rotting hulk where few hookers dared to tread. It wouldn't have surprised her at all to learn that Cal was back on drugs, that he was here to get his next score.

"Right you are, love," Nigel agreed with a shudder. "Did you see those curtains move? I think someone's watching us."

Jordan looked over at the manager's apartment. "He knows why we're here, Nige. He could just be curious. He could be in on it, too. Maybe this is the Phoenix version of the hotel in Milwaukee. Or maybe he's just waiting to see if we wanted this room for our own private hook-up."

"You have a very dirty mind," Nigel observed. He grinned at her. "I love it. Shall we proceed?"

She shook her head, but she lifted the key to room 13, Cal's former residence. The horseshoe under the number had fallen sideways, and she couldn't help wondering if it had happened when the room was broken into, or if it had always been that way.

"Here," Nigel offered, handing her gloves. She put them on quickly and opened the door. The room was still as it had been when Cal was reported missing, surprising for a by-the-hour place like this. Maybe business was slow. Or maybe the manager planned on suing for damages. The room was a single, and the mattress was overturned, the sheets strewn across the floor. The lamp was pulled from the wall, and the shade was crumpled. She stopped, taking her own photos of everything.

She crossed the room carefully, into the bathroom. All the personal possessions were gone, no real sign that this had really been Cal's room. She touched the broken glass gently with her finger, careful of her gloves. Nigel had set down his kit and was already getting out fingerprinting equipment. She saw something behind the toilet and bent to pick it up. A matchbook for a local club. She didn't know how this had gotten missed, but then again, there was no guaranteeing that this was the real, preserved crime scene.

She finished in the bathroom, bringing the bagged matchbook cover and joining Nigel. "Not much here."

"I'm sorry, love," Nigel agreed. "I don't think we'll find Calvin this way."

"You won't," a dark voice said from the doorway, startling them. Jordan swallowed hard. "I should have known you couldn't leave it alone. Couldn't find me, so you went to find Cal?"

"It was my idea, actually," Nigel said defensively, stepping in front of Jordan. She moved around him. Woody would never hurt her. He might have been cruel to her after his shooting, but he would never hit her, never beat her. He might have been bitter, angry, even, but he _was _smiling.

"I actually expected you sooner," Woody said, stepping out into the light of the afternoon. "But I was following the case in the papers. You've been busy."

"Not busy enough," Jordan countered. She wanted to touch him, but she knew he wouldn't let her. "They got a list of names out of Senator Gibson, but they haven't found everyone yet."

Woody shrugged. "Even he doesn't know everyone. He's not at the top of this. I don't know who is. Not sure I even care. How's Mic? Sheila? Ruby?"

"Mic's good. He's got a steady business of cops going through now. A popular place that diner. Sheila and Jerry are planning a wedding. Ruby was going to name her baby after you, but she's having a girl," Jordan told him. He laughed.

"I pity anyone else saddled with this name," he said. "So... You really want to find Cal?"

"Absolutely, Woodrow," Nigel said, causing Woody to wince. He turned away from them, leaving them little choice but to follow.

"Cal was working for a pool cleaner. Lots of business for that down here," Woody observed, shielding his eyes with his hand. "He didn't make much, which almost explains the hotel. I would have expected more drugs. Everyone says he was clean, though. Just dirt poor and trying to scrape by like everyone else."

"Who's everyone?" Jordan asked, rushing to keep up with him. She reached his side and struggled to keep up. Nigel was somewhere behind them, muttering about not being a bloody baggage cart.

"Cal's girlfriend, Nikki, for one. She's the one that reported him missing. He has a bunch of friends down here. He always was popular. Some people he worked with, some he just met somewhere," Woody smiled sarcastically. "None of them know who I am. He told them he had a brother, but his brother's a big jerk... Always the victim, poor Cal..."

Jordan looked at him. Cal wasn't the real victim. Woody was. He had been the one that took the worst of it. He was a damn hero, had always been, long before he became a cop. "I am surprised you were looking for him. I don't know that he deserves it."

"Oh, I could say that I got him into this—but I didn't. I could say I still care—maybe I do, a little. But mostly I just don't want them to be able to use him against me," Woody said coldly. He looked at Jordan's rental. "You haven't learned, have you?"

She looked at her "rent-a-pimp-mobile" and smiled. "Nope. But we can let Nigel get taken by the alien conspiracy nut this time."

"Say what?" Nigel demanded.

* * *

"That is your brother's fair maiden?" Nigel asked, studying the woman behind the bar dubiously. She winked at him, beckoning with her finger. Jordan laughed at his surprised expression. Woody shook his head and grunted into his beer. Apparently, Nikki was not shy, or devoted to Cal. She did a slight tease with her rag and beckoned to Nigel again.

Jordan nudged him. "Go see what you can find out, oh master of British charm and magnetism."

"Funny," Nigel said. "I think she wants to eat me alive."

She was a bit heavy-set, Jordan agreed, but she shoved him out of the booth. He grumbled as he regained his dignity and started walking over. Alone with Woody at last, she reached for his hand. He looked down, about to jerk it away, but he stopped. "I think you need to understand something, Jordan. I'm not going back to Boston, to what I was."

She nodded. She knew that. She didn't like it. She would never like it. But he needed time. He needed to be able just to be... himself, whatever that was because she was pretty sure he had to figure it out again. "I know. I just... I have to know, Woody. Why... why were you so angry with me?"

"With you?" he drank from his beer and closed his eyes. "Remember I told you that a shrink could explain everything? Jordan, you have always been 'emotionally unavailable,' as they say. You didn't want to have a relationship, a real meaningful one, and that was perfect. I didn't want a meaningful one, either, despite what I said. Every time we got close, I backed off. I don't know how to be close to someone without them hurting me. That's why... Devan, Lu, it was shallow. Easy. I didn't have to worry about them finding out about my past because they'd never ask. You, Jordan, you weren't like them. Even as much as you were scared to love, scared to commit, you would have found the bottom of my problems eventually. So I kept running. You kept running. It worked for a while."

"So... when you got shot... Did you remember any of it then?" She asked, unable to stop herself or the tears running down her cheeks. He was being open about this in a way she didn't expect and couldn't help but admire.

"I didn't consciously know what I was doing when I ran from the relationship, no," he admitted. "When I got shot... I didn't remember everything, or anything specific, actually, but being so helpless... It scared me more than I understood. The last time I was helpless..."

He shrugged, and she tightened her grip on his hand. He looked at her, then at the hand. "I blamed you when I shouldn't have, Jordan. I just didn't know how where the fear was coming from, the pain, the shame, and the anger... I put it on you because I could identify the target, and that made it less frightening. Easier to cope with, easier to escape."

"Woody," she began, not knowing what to say, but she wanted to say something, to help him or herself. She wasn't sure."I don't... I..."

"I know," he finished softly. He looked up as Nigel came back to their table. "What did Nikki have to say tonight?"

"She wants my body," Nigel managed to say, taking his seat and his drink again. "Apparently, I am some sort of British god. Do I have you to thank for this, Woodrow?"

Woody smirked, but he shook his head. "Cal, supposedly. And what did you learn, other than that Nikki has a healthy sexual appetite?"

Jordan choked on her drink, and Nigel laughed. "I learned she and your brother met someone she thinks was involved in all this. Guy named Rumos. She give you that name, Woodrow?"

"No, but then I'm not a British god. I'm the jerk brother, remember?" Woody said. He took another swig of his beer. "You have an address for Rumos?"

Nigel held up a piece of paper with a flourish. "Shall we?"

* * *

"Open up, Rumos," Woody called, pounding on the door. This was familiar, too, like when she would follow him to a suspect's door. She couldn't help a small smile. It died when she saw him take out his gun. She'd forgotten that he still had one, and she had also forgotten that he was basically a vigilante now.

"You the police?" the fat man asked, opening the door a crack.

Woody put the gun next to the man's forehead, on top of his greasy hair. "No, I'm not, but you're going to wish I was."

Nigel pulled on Jordan's arm. She nodded. They had to stop Woody from himself. Again. She reached out to pull him back, but Rumos stepped back, opening the door. "I knew you'd get here eventually, Hoyt. Took you longer than I thought, though."

"Took me a while to convince myself not to kill you," Woody answered. He looked around the room. It was surreal, the way this was playing out in a typical suburban home, full of pictures of a seemingly loving family. Rumos with his wife, two kids, and a mess of grandkids. This man was a part of the pornography ring? He didn't seem the type. Not at all. He looked like a beaten old man, a retiree with time but no energy.

"You really are so much like your mother," Rumos told him.

Woody smiled grimly. "I should hope so. I'd never want to be like my father. Now, Where is Cal?"

"Your brother... Well, I am afraid what happened to him is what happens to all addicts eventually. They relapse, you know. Your brother... Well, he did it in quite a spectacular way. Almost killed himself. Might still do it, after all. Doctors say it's touch and go," Rumos shrugged. Jordan was suddenly very glad that Woody had a gun. This man was twisted, yet the worst part was that he _seemed _so normal. He was so ordinary, and he used it to his sick advantage.

"Which hospital?" Woody asked, his eyes never left the other man.

"There are so many in this town," Rumos said, shrugging. He was deliberately vague.

"We can check the records," Jordan offered. "We've got Nigel. He can find anything, remember?"

"Won't take more than a minute," Nigel promised.

Woody glanced at them and then looked over at Rumos. "You have more names than Gibson, don't you? More connections. I want you to give them all to the authorities. Or I will be back."

Rumos grunted. "You lived in fear of me for a long time, Hoyt. I don't fear you at all."

"You should," Woody warned. "I've got nothing left to lose. That makes me dangerous enough. But I also have every reason in the world to hate you, every reason to repay you for what you did to me. What you did to Cal."

Rumos shrugged again, but there was doubt in his eyes. Woody turned and left, brushing past Jordan and Nigel. She looked back at the man who had caused Woody so much pain, wondering how he had been able to stop himself from doing as he threatened. He was angry, yes, and he had gotten a chance to confront his abuser. He had not been afraid, had not resorted to violence. She was so incredibly proud of him in that moment.

She rushed to catch up to him. Nigel was already in the car, his laptop out and his fingers flying across the keyboard. Woody rested his head against the door frame, His eyes closed. It had taken a lot out of him, the entire visit. She bent, kneeling next to him, touching his hand. She squeezed it gently, kissing his forehead. "I don't know how you did that. I don't know that I could."

"I shouldn't have," Woody whispered. "I shouldn't have..."

"I've got it," Nigel called from the back. "I know where Cal is."

* * *

"He's going to be okay," Jordan said softly, looking at Cal's chart. He'd been admitted three weeks ago, as a John Doe who had overdosed. She was pretty sure that he'd had help, too. The levels were consistent with an overdose, but not with habitual use. Cal had kept his promise. He _was _clean, until they'd helped him along.

"He looks _fine," _Woody muttered. "Just fine."

"It looks worse than it is," Jordan insisted. "It's a medically induced coma. He's doing much better than he was."

Woody nodded numbly. "Then it's done."

"What do you mean, it's done?" Jordan asked softly, suddenly scared by his words and the dull tone of his voice. He sounded... defeated. Cold. She wasn't sure how to describe it.

"I never intended to stay, Jordan. It's not that I am abandoning Cal, though I'd like to," Woody admitted. "But as long as I know where he is, and that he's going to live, it is enough. I can't stay, though. If I stay, they can still use him, use him against me."

His logic made sense, as much as she hated to admit it. "Where...where will you go?"

He shook his head. "I can't do what I need to do around other people, Jordan. I can't do it around _you. _I can't figure out who I am if I am constantly reminded of what you _want _me to be, or what I think I should be for you. Whatever I am, it has to be because of me, not you, not Cal, not my dad or what he did to me, what any of them did to me."

She felt tears in her eyes. She didn't want to let him go. She understood that he needed to go, and that he needed to be alone. She understood it, but she would never accept it, not fully. "Woody, I... I don't want you to go. I know you know that, but I had to say it again. I love you."

"I know you do," he told her. "I know there's a part of me that feels the same. But I don't know how much I trust it."

"Lie to me then," she told him. "Trust it just for a minute, tell me you love me."

He looked at her. She waited for a moment, her heart pounding. He smiled. "One for the road? Okay, Jordan. Close your eyes."

She did as he asked, hearing his voice soft in her ears just before his lips found hers. _I love you. _And for one perfect moment, she was enveloped in his arms, drowning in an embrace she never wanted to end. He was saying goodbye, and she knew it. She was losing him, even as he held her so tightly that she could burst, kissed her with a love he didn't acknowledge.

She was overwhelmed by the moment, by him and everything. And if it was the last time she saw him, the last time she held him, she wanted it to last. One for the road was _not _enough. He pulled back, both of them breathing heavily.

"Keep your eyes closed," he told her. And she did, as much as she wanted to look at him, to see him again. But she did as he asked.

For the last time, apparently. When she did open her eyes, he was gone.


End file.
